


The Shadowchaser and The Stormborn

by Urrax



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackfyre Conspiracy, Book Based, Book Euron, Competent Viserys Targaryen, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jon Snow, Dragons, Essos focused, F/F, F/M, House Blackfyre, House Stark, House Stark Civil War, House Velyaron, Jon Snow is Aemon Targaryen, Jonerys AU Fest, Kingdom of Sarnor, Major Changes to Dothraki Lore, Norvos, Not A Fix-It, Qohor, R Plus L Equals J, Robert is not a fatass, Silver Haired Jon Snow, Smut, The Dothraki Actually Make Sense, The Great Dornish Conspiracy, War, Warging, Weirwood(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-06-05 02:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15160016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urrax/pseuds/Urrax
Summary: Old powers waken. Shadows stir. An age of wonder and terror will soon be upon us, an age for gods and heroes.Ned Stark escapes the battle at the Tower of Joy only by Ser Arthur’s mercy and without his nephew, a boy with silver-gold hair that Ser Arthur is determined to restore to the Iron Throne. Lord Stark desperately seeks to balance his obligations to his sister Lyanna, to find and keep her son safe while remaining loyal to his best friend, King Robert Baratheon.In the east two factions of Targaryens rise. One loyal to Prince Viserys and his sister Princess Daenerys, led by Lord Lucerys Velaryon, former Master of Ships for King Aerys II Targaryen. The other loyal to Prince Aemon, led by Ser Arthur Dayne, the most formidable member of Aerys II's Kingsguard.By the way fuck D&D.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serpentguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentguy/gifts), [Aion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aion/gifts).



> Few notes: 
> 
> 1\. This is a very long story.  
> 2\. Romance will take several chapters to actually happen and smut will take longer.  
> 3\. War is very messy  
> 4\. Book based entirely. The show will be ignored.  
> 5\. Magic will play a large part in the story. Just not at the beginning.  
> 6\. The Others will be in this  
> 7\. Feel free to theorize and speculate in the comments.

**Prologue**

The air was hot, stale and carried the scent of blood. Around Ser Arthur, men lay dead or dying. Where there had been three of them now there was just one. Ser Oswell had taken a sword through the throat, not before he took two men to the grave with him. Ser Gerold was breathing his final breaths, the spear in his side made each breath a wet wheeze. Ser Arthur had avenged his Lord Commander and the spearman laid headless on the ground along with three of his companions. Dawn sang as it bit into the sword of his final opponent.

His shoulders ached from the ferocity of the morning’s swordplay and each step he took reminded Ser Arthur of the landed blow from one of the northmen’s Morningstar. Yet with each swing of his greatsword Ser Arthur drove Ned Stark backwards. In the beginning there had been confidence in the Northman’s eyes. As his companions fell one by one that confidence had been replaced by fear.

High then low he directed Dawn. At the waist. At the thigh. Blood splattered on the ground as Dawn bit through leather and chainmail. Ned Stark’s shield fell heavily to the dirt, the reinforced wood was made a ruin from Dawn’s fierce bite. Ser Arthur’s eyes narrowed as the Northman clutched his longsword with two hands.

In the brief recess they could clearly hear Lady Lyanna’s screams. “Stop Please!”

Ser Arthur saw Ned Stark flinch at his sister’s wail and he charged. The weight behind the swing staggered Ned Stark and the Northman barely recovered enough to block the blow meant for his hip. Lyanna’s screams continued, providing a backdrop to the clash of steel.

The pale white surface of Dawn’s blade was marred by blood and yet Ser Arthur never thought the sword looked more beautiful. It was thinner and lighter than any sword of its size had any right to be and with the blade in hand Ser Arthur never felt better a warrior than he did now. _I will not fail you Rhaegar._ Ser Arthur thought. Dawn slipped through the Stark’s guard once again, but this time the Northmen’s gambeson gave him enough time to slip away before his blood could be spilled.

Dust kicked up from Stark’s shambling feet stung Ser Arthur’s eyes and he had to step over a white armored body to pursue Stark’s backpedal. Stark was skilled, but Ser Arthur had fought many better. But Ned Stark was determined. The young lord showed no signs of fleeing even as he was forced closer and closer to the pale red stone of the Tower of Joy.

Their blades clenched, and Ser Arthur abandoned his two-grip. His right hand shot forward to grip the pommel of Ned Stark’s sword and then with a twist, Ser Arthur ripped the blade from Ned Stark’s grip. Before he could swing for the killing blow, Ser Arthur heard the slightest shuffle of sand behind him. By instinct he turned, and his helm caught the blade of dagger meant for the back of his neck.

A shocked gasp left the short man’s throat as Dawn opened his belly. Ned Stark slammed into Ser Arthur then. Dawn and the longsword skid across the dirt as the two men rolled. A choking cloud of dust rose in the air as they grappled.

Ser Arthur twisted away as Ned Stark pulled his dagger from his belt. The blade bit into Ser Arthur’s gauntlet but the knight barely felt the pain. He bucked his hips, throwing Ned Stark from onto him. Stark pulled the dagger from Ser Arthur’s hand, but the next thrust was useless against the plate armor. Ser Arthur caught Stark’s wrist and slammed the hand down onto the hard-packed dirt.

Stark’s gauntleted fist slamming into Ser Arthur’s helm dazed him and the knight answered with a headbutt of his own.  The action weakened Stark’s grip on the dagger and Ser Arthur followed with a fist. The dagger slid away but Ned Stark still fought with an animalistic ferocity. They battered each other with fist and grappled for the upper hand. Ser Arthur’s plate armor limited his mobility and Stark’s padded armor and chainmail softened the blows to body.

Arthur’s helm was ripped loose and Stark scrambled to grab a piece of brick that fell from the tower. As Ned Stark raised his arm to strike him, Ser Arthur ripped his dagger from his swordbelt and plunged the blade into Stark’s armpit. The angle and padding of Ned Stark’s armor prevented the blade from plunging deeper than an inch but the shock of the wound dropped the rock from Stark’s grip. Arthur rolled Stark onto his back and tore away the Northmen’s helm.

Blood spurted from Stark’s nose. Arthur felt the man’s cheek crack, but he did not stop until Stark grew still beneath him. “Now it ends.” Ser Arthur said as he rose and gathered Dawn from the dirt.  Even with all the punishment, Ned Stark’s chest still rose and fell. The man deserved a clean death.

Sharp green eyes stared at Ser Arthur as he stalked towards Ned Stark. The small man that sought to surprise the knight was hardly a threat now. Like Valyrian steel, Dawn held an edge unlike any normal sword and never needed to be sharpened. Dark blood spilled from the wound on his gut. If the man tried to rise his insides would likely spill on the ground before him.

Stark was hardly in better shape. Blood ran heavy from his nose and the many cuts on his face. One eye was closed completely, the other stared at Ser Arthur in resigned acceptance.

Already the thrill of battle was leaving Ser Arthur. He felt no pleasure in his victory, only duty compelled him. _I am sorry Ashara._ Ser Arthur thought as he lifted the greatsword.

“Please Arthur stop!” Lady Lyanna shouted. The proximity of the scream stilled Ser Arthur’s swing. He turned and was shocked to see Lady Lyanna at the steps. Her sleeping gown was wet with blood and sweat. Her brown hair clung limply to her face and her grey eyes looked fevered. Still the Stark girl walked down the steps of the tower with a single-minded determination.

For months Lyanna had been bedridden. Ever since Ser Gerold had brought the news of her father’s burning and her brother’s execution, Lyanna’s laugh and smiles were much rarer. Prince Rhaegar had forbidden her departure after it was confirmed that she was with child. The news of the Prince’s death had brought the fear that Lyanna would die and take her child with her. But as Lyanna struggled down the steps, Arthur heard a cry pierce the air.

 _Strong lungs_ was the Kingsguard’s first thought. _A king or a queen?_ Was his second.

“Ned?” Lyanna questioned as she caught sight of the fallen man. The sound of his sister’s voice stirred the injured lord and he reached for his sister.

“Lya-“ he gurgled.

Ser Arthur caught Lyanna before she stumbled. “Please he’s my brother.” Lyanna pleaded as Ser Arthur hesitated.

 _He is the enemy._ But Ser Arthur brought the girl to her brother. She gasped at the mess of his face and collapsed to his side, cradling the head in her lap. Ned Stark mumbled an unintelligible greeting that brought fresh tears to Lyanna’s eyes. “I’m so sorry Ned. I’m sorry-“ She repeated.

Ser Arthur turned away from the exchange. He ascended the steps and made his way into the tower, guided by the infant’s cries. The tower was a seven roomed, round tower that overlooked the northern edge of the Red Mountains of Dorne. Prince Rhaegar had furnished and restored the ancient military outpost to make it as comfortable as possible for first Princess Elia and then Lyanna. But for months the latter had likened the tower to a comfortable prison and Ser Arthur and his brothers as her goalers.

Wylla was in the sixth room, the room of the stranger, cleaning the newborn. She turned her head in alarm at the sound of Ser Arthur’s entrance. Ser Arthur leaned his bleeding blade against the crib and took stock of the child. _A boy._ Silver hair. Dark blue eyes stared back at him. He wondered what color they would fade to when the boy grew older.

“Our prince.” Wylla said. Ser Arthur caught the affection in her voice. The midwife had helped with the delivery of Allyria and was one of the few that Ser Arthur trusted.

He shook his head. “No. Our King.”

“What will be his name?” Wylla asked.

Ser Arthur frowned. Rhaegar had been convinced that this child was the final head of the three-headed dragon. The first two children of the prince had been named Rhaenys and Aegon and the final name was obvious even if the Prince had not voiced it half a hundred times. Here lay a king, not a queen. News of the sack of King’s Landing had only reached them weeks before and now both Rhaenys and Aegon were dead.

“Aegon?” Wylla asked when he did not answer. Ser Arthur considered the name. There had been five Aegons that sat the throne, the last had been Prince Rhaegar’s great grandfather. Great men, terrible men and those barely noteworthy. The name had a storied but muddied legacy. Aegon had been Prince Rhaegar’s first child and it felt wrong for it to be the name of his last.

“Gather the child.” Arthur said. He helped Wylla gather enough supplies for their journey. The woman had been chosen for her long-term loyalty to Starfall and the recent birth of her own child. Arthur made her sit and feed the new king while he scanned the tower for anything necessary.

Prince Rhaegar had brought many books and scrolls to the tower. Maps of the Seven Kingdoms lined the walls adorned with the elegant handwriting of the prince. The prince had known that even with his victory over Robert, the submission of the Seven Kingdoms was far from guaranteed. The armies of the North, Riverlands and the Vale would need to be subdued before Rhaegar could turn his strength on his father. He had been so confident that he would return from the war but feared for the safety of his children. _Aegon and Rhaenys have the walls of King’s Landing and Maegor’s holdfast to protect them and Ser Jaime would not let them come to harm. Lyanna needs the Kingsguard to keep her and the child safe._

There were other maps and recordings in the tower as well. Rhaegar had a near obsession with Valyrian steel. This daughter was meant to be a warrior and like her brother she would need a sword fitting of her legacy. Letters and maps of the far north tracked Brynden Rivers’ journey to the wall, the last confirmed wielder of Dark Sister. Months of exchanges with Maester Aemon were there. The two had been in deep conversation for years, only paused when Rhaegar met with Lyanna a year after the tourney of Harrenhal. Thousands of documents detailing the Blackfyre rebellion were also in the tower’s library. Both for military reasons and for hints on the location of the sword Blackfyre, Rhaegar had hoarded the documents. There were descriptions and detailed lineages of houses that could boast having stock of the rare blades. If he could not find his family’s ancestral swords, then Rhaegar intended to bribe a minor house. There were two hundred and twenty-seven Valyrian steel blades in Westeros or so the Maesters claimed but most had been lost over the eons.

All this Ser Arthur knew for he had been Rhaegar’s confidant. Still he spread the books and letters on the floor and poured candle oil on top of them. Caskets of the fluid had been left over from its days as a military outpost. Watchers once sat and alerted the armies of Dorne to the progress of Prince Daeron I’s march. There would be enough.

Ser Arthur poured the oils on the sheets of the beds and even over Rhaegar’s silver-stringed high harp. The elaborate instrument was too large and cumbersome to carry. Of the items in the tower, Ser Arthur only saved the black and red marriage cloak. There were no papers of any worth to save. Rhaegar had married the Stark girl on the isle of faces with the Kingsguard and Greenmen as witness. Even if Rhaegar had lived the faith would have protested, but now his son was little more than a bastard in the eyes of the south. _The Bastard King._

Ser Arthur gathered Wylla who wrapped the babe in the cloak. A single strike of flint against the fire striker was enough to light the oil. By the time the three had descended the steps, dark smoke was rising from the roof of the tower. Ned Stark was leaned against the base. His face had been wiped clean and his sister rested against him. The girl was so still and pale that Ser Arthur had thought she passed until the girl stirred at the sound of their footsteps.

Lyanna’s eyes locked on the babe in Wylla’s arms. “Can I hold him?” She questioned.

Ser Arthur looked to Ned Stark. His face was bruised and swollen beyond recognition. Yet one eye stared at Ser Arthur with a challenge and an arm wrapped protectively around his sister’s waist. The Kingsguard shook his head.

“Please.” Lyanna pleaded.

Ser Arthur did not reply but his face was firm. If his brothers had lived, then Ser Arthur could have chanced bring Lyanna but Wylla had long ago warned them that Lyanna was not likely to survive. Even now she looked close to death. In her state she would only be a liability. Instead Ser Arthur looked to her brother. Ned Stark understood.

“Turn away Lya.” He whispered.

The confusion on Lyanna’s face was brief before horror replaced it. “Please Arthur. He’s my brother. He’s Jon’s uncle.”

Ser Arthur paused. “Jon?” He questioned.

Lyanna nodded. She was curled protectively around her wounded brother. “I named him for the man who raised Ned and for a King of Winter.”

The name was not fitting for a king. “No. It will not work.” He advanced once more.

Lyanna became nearly hysterical. She sobbed. Threw dirt and stone at Ser Arthur. “I beg you! Please he’s my brother. Take me instead. Please.” Her nails scratched at Ser Arthur’s gauntlets as he gripped her arm to drag her away.

Ser Arthur’s heart was in his throat. _It is my duty._ “He is the enemy Lyanna. He fought with the Usurper and his duty compels him to tell _his_ king of our own. What do you think Robert Baratheon will do when he learns Rhaegar has another child? He killed the other two and won’t rest until your own son is dead. I have my duty.” Burning the tower and killing Ned Stark would bring questions but not answers. The bodies of his brothers and the Northmen told the tale of a fight but not the birth of a king. Mystery would be their armor.

Despite her poor health, Lyanna fought with surprising strength. Ser Arthur loathed to put my force in distancing himself from her and she used his concern to her advantage, gripping his ankle so that he dragged her in the dirt with every step he took. “Please Ser Arthur. I beg, spare him. I promise he won’t tell. I promise.”

The Kingsguard paused once again. He looked to Ned Stark. “I am Lord Commander of King Aemon Targaryen, first of his name. The boy will return to Westeros to reclaim his birth right and I will be there to put my sword into the belly of your false king. You fought to put the usurper on the throne and now you know of his greatest threat. What say you?”

Lyanna crawled on her hands and knees to her brother. She kissed his forehead and then his cheeks. “Promise him Ned. Promise him please. Promise that you won’t tell Robert about Jon.”

 _Aemon._ Ser Arthur thought but he did not speak.

Ned stared at his sister for a long moment and then nodded.

“Say it.” Ser Arthur pressed.

“I promise.” Ned Stark mumbled through swollen lips.

Ser Arthur sighed and wiped the still bleeding Dawn on the cloak of one of the fallen Northmen. He knew killing Stark was the better option. The military leadership of Ned Stark had been one of the critical factors for the success of the rebellion and removing an enemy commander today for Aemon’s conquest would be an easy victory. He thought of Ashara and the smile she had after dancing with Ned Stark at Harrenhal. His sister had talked of the quiet boy and the dashing brother of his for hours after. _There has been enough killing today._ He sheathed the greatsword.

Lyanna stared at him warily. “Can I see my son before you take him?” She asked. The tears were in her eyes again. Gone was the pretty girl that Rhaegar had crowned at the tourney. Only two years had passed but death was upon her. Her voice was soft. It was possible the request was her last.

Ser Arthur looked to Wylla and nodded. The midwife stepped towards Lyanna, knelt and pulled back the cloak covering Aemon’s hair. Lyanna smiled weakly at her son. “I love you little one.” Arthur allowed Lyanna a full minute to look but the smoke of the tower was growing thicker.

“We must go now.” Ser Arthur said. Lyanna looked ready to protest but her brother’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Where will you go?” Lyanna asked.

 _Starfall._ Ser Gerold came from the most prosperous family and they had planned for him to approach his nephew, Lord of House Hightower and Oldtown for an alliance. With Ser Gerold dead however, the only confirmed allies of Ser Arthur were his own family. He knew the move was obvious, but Ser Arthur did not plan to stay in Westeros for long. The port of Starfall lay on the Torretine river which opened to the sea beyond. From there he could charter a ship around the arm of Dorne to Essos.  The queen on Dragonstone called to him but he was one man with an infant king. _My duty is to the king._ Ser Arthur remained quiet.

“Protect him please.” Lyanna pleaded by now the adrenaline was leaving her and Ned Stark was supporting his sister from falling.

“With my life.” Ser Arthur promised and then he, Wylla and Aemon departed. The Tower of Joy sat on a high cliff that provided unobstructed views for miles. At the base of the cliff, Arthur found the Northmen’s seven mounts. They were sand steeds of a Dornish breed. Light boned, fast horses that could run for three days and nights without water. Ser Arthur stripped himself of his armor. The horse would be unable to bear the weight.

He helped Wylla into the saddle and then handed the midwife Aemon. Ser Arthur hesitated before mounting his own. If he freed the other horses, then Ned Stark’s death would be assured. The Dornish sun was all but a death sentence to those unaccustomed. Stark would find nothing but bones and bandits in Vulture’s Roost and it was a hard march through the mountains to Kingsgrave. _He promised._

Ser Arthur sighed and mounted his horse. Perhaps he would meet Ned Stark on the battlefield. Until then his promise would protect him. Above a raven circled and cawed.

The king sucked greedily at Wylla’s breast as they rode. Ser Arthur guided their horses down into the pass. Thick grass and desert trees covered the basin of the pass. Above the dark smoke from the tower stretched for a mile across the sky.

 _The boy needs a mother._ Ser Arthur thought. Wylla would not do. She had her own child and it was too much to ask a woman to live in exile with no date of return. _Ashara._ Arthur thought. His little sister would do. Intelligent and highborn, Ashara would teach Aemon what it meant to be a king.

They rode on to Starfall.

 

 


	2. Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the fight at the Tower of Joy.

**Eddard Stark**

Only the heat and smoke from the fire gave Ned enough energy and willpower to move. Lyanna fell limply to the ground as he struggled to his feet. The wound under his arm made it difficult to carry her and instead Ned half dragged her thirty feet away from the burning base. His sister was cold and clammy to the touch but miraculously alive. She had slipped unconscious only moments after Ser Arthur disappeared over the ridge. Gently he laid her down in red sand untarnished from today’s bloodshed. Ned unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around his sister.

 _Only six and ten and she has known so much heartbreak._ He brushed away a damp lock of hair from her face and placed a kiss on her brow. A prayer was said to the Old Gods, but Ned did not know if they held power this far south. _Live Lyanna please._  

Once his sister was secured, Ned sought his other companions. He had brought six with him this far south. Loyal men. Northmen and as many he dared.

Ethan Glover was the first he came upon. Five and ten with the shadow of a beard and a bawdy voice that brought many laughs, Ethan had been Brandon’s squire and in truth more of a younger brother than Ned had been. When they freed the lad from the Mad King’s Black Cells, Ethan had given them the first clue of Lyanna’s whereabouts, but Howland Reed was the one who had saved them months of searching. Now Ethan was barely recognizable. His helm had been caved in from the from Ser Oswell’s Morning Star and his face was a red ruin.

Ned grimaced at the sight. He had been hesitant to bring Ethan due to his age, but Ethan was skilled with a sword and eager to avenge Brandon after being trapped for the entire war. Theo ‘Buckets’ Wull lay beside him. Of the Kingsguard Ser Oswell had been the first to fall though not before his Morningstar punctured Theo’s chest.

He stepped over the severed head of Willam Dustin. _I promised his wife that I would bring him home._ Ned clenched his fist. Willam had been so reluctant to leave his horse in a village sequestered in the valley of the Prince’s Pass until Ned promised him that they would return for the horse.

Martyn Cassel and Mark Ryswell were nearly on top of each other. One had taken a blow to the shoulder from Ser Gerold’s poleaxe and then the sharpened point to the eye and the other lost an arm to Ser Arthur’s greatsword. It seemed armor meant little against the meteorite forged sword. The sand was soggy from the spill of blood.

 _We grew too confident._ When Ser Oswell fell, the remaining five had sought to swarm the two knights and attack from all sides. The Kingsguards had compensated and fought back to back. Poleaxes and Greatswords were ideal weapons for those outnumbered and both men embodied the legend of the white cloak.

A ragged breath quickened Ned’s pace and soon sharp green eyes stared up at him. “Howland.” Ned greeted heavily as he knelt next to his friend.

Dark blood ran freely between the crannogmen’s fingers that clutched his abdomen. “Hello Ned.” His voice cracked with pain. The lord of Greywater Watch was a small man, almost childlike in stature but no less a warrior because of it. He wore a shirt of bronze scales, a cloak made of leaves and moss and stained green breeches. His three-pronged spear was broken beside him as was his leather shield.

Howland and Ned had fought Ser Arthur as one. The knight had turned Howland’s spear to kindling and Ned had thought the crannogmen had died when he initially fell to Ser Arthur’s blade. “You almost had him.” Ned joked.

Howland tried to laugh but the sound was more akin to a choked gasp. “Close.” He grimaced and then glanced behind Ned to where Lyanna lay. “Is she alive?”

Ned nodded. _Barely._ “She endures.”

“Gods be god.” Howland said. He clutched his wound tighter. “Lyanna was always a fighter.”

Ned glanced up at the burning tower. _Is that why three Kingsguard were needed to hold her here?_ By now the top of the tower was an intense blaze. A smoke column traveled for miles. They needed to leave this cliffside before more came to investigate. Robert now sat the Iron Throne, but the Targaryen loyalist had yet to be completely quelled. As a precaution Ned had his men abandon their coat of arms but he doubted two Starks and a crannogman would be inconspicuous in Dorne. “I need to move you Howland.” The heat from the fire was steadily rising.

Ned tugged on Howland’s shoulders and dragged him to Lyanna’s side. Howland’s pained scream likely echoed for a mile. The crannogman was turning green and looked close to losing consciousness. Ned’s arm ached from where Ser Arthur’s dagger had pierced him. He resisted his body’s urge to rest and knelt by his friend. “I need to see your wound.”

Between ragged breaths, Howland muttered. “Aye.”

Ned lifted the shirt of scales and his jaw clenched at the sight. It was a deep rip into the skin, but Ned did not know enough to tell whether Howland’s organs had been pierced. Howland would be dead if Ser Arthur had the chance to put more force into the slash, instead the Knight had merely swiped across the belly. Bronze scales were ripped asunder from the sheer sharpness of Dawn. “I need to cauterize your wound.”

Sharp green eyes stared into Ned’s own. “My pack, there is a salve and I think Theo had wine; bandages as well.” When Ned stood, Howland spoke again. “Wait. Don’t forget to give me something to bite on.”

Despite the situation Ned smiled at his friend. While many of the southern and even those of the _north_ looked down upon the crannogman for their small size and strange customs, they were also among the best healers many had ever seen. Maesters were in short supply or otherwise overworked during times of war. In the many skirmishes since Ned had called his banners, Howland himself had fought by day and healed those by night. Even Robert owed his life to Howland. Ned still remembered his king, drunk with victory but near delirious in agony. “ _I smashed his chest in just as I said I would. His fucking rubies flew everywhere. I told you Ned that I’d kill that- fuck.”_ _Howland smiled and said. “And he did wound you as well. This cut will be infected if we don’t treat it. Would you like something to bite down on?”_ Robert initially refused but as his pained screams echoed across their camp, he had quickly relented and a splint was placed in his mouth. Rhaegar had landed a blow under the shoulder plating and at the hip but Robert’s finely crafted armor prevented the blows from being fatal. Ned had seen Rhaegar’s body three days after the battle. Crows had feasted on his face and in addition to the large hole where the spike of Robert’s Warhammer had pierced the breastplate there were various dents along the armor either from Robert or where horses had trampled the prince’s body.  Only the council of Jon Arryn had prevented Robert from allowing the body to be desecrated further. 

Ned shook clean the thoughts and went to gather the supplies. He shrugged out of his gambeson, wincing at each movement of his arm. An inch closer and the dagger would have hit where the padding stopped at the arm pit. Each movement was punctuated by a small agony but Ned would live.

Mercifully Ser Arthur had taken Martyn Cassel’s and Ethan Glover’s mounts. Ned collected the urn of salve. Simple with rough dimples and a wide, thick cork, the urn gave no hint of the foul-smelling medicine. Ned ascended the path to the tower’s base. Near two hundred feet below the Prince’s pass stretched. They had ridden their horses as far up as possible but the pathway narrowed dramatically in the final ascent.

Amongst the rocks were desert trees with thin trunks and even thinner branches with small yellow flowers. Ned cut loose several branches and gathered clumps of desert grass. He formed a small depression and used the long stem of the branch to gather fire from the burning tower. The flame had spread to the supporting beams and it was only time until the entire tower collapsed. Desert leaves and twigs burned quickly- too quickly and Ned struggled to maintain the flame. He grit his teeth in frustration. The more time that passed the more blood Howland would lose. Once the fire stabilized, Ned boiled the wine and heated his dagger. While he worked Ned forced Howland to continue speaking.

Half a hundred questions were exchanged. Life at Greywater Watch. Howland’s time with the Greenmen on the Isle of Faces. Howland’s wife. The name of his young daughter. All these answers Ned knew and he grew more worried when Howland took longer and longer to answer him. Finally, the wine steamed and then minutes later the dagger glowed red. Ned removed the blade to cool and then wrapped Theo Wull’s cloak around his hand to grab the wine.

“Stay with me Howland.” Ned said as he slipped a twig in Lord Reed’s mouth. The crannogman barely reacted. The boiled wine pouring over Howland’s skin brought a muffled scream. A small relief. He wiped away the excess blood and then sealed the skin with the hot dagger. _One. Two. Three._ Ned counted during each press as the skin morphed under the steel. Holding the dagger too long to the skin would do more damage than help. Howland had soiled himself by the time Ned was done mending the flesh, but the foul smell of the paste hid the scent of urine. The crannogmen was limp when Ned wrapped the bandages around his torso.

Lyanna had not stirred in the commotion and Ned checked her worriedly. She had always been a skinny girl, even when he returned from the Vale and found a beautiful maiden had replaced his knobby-kneed sister, but it was disconcerting how he could feel every detail of her ribcage. _Did they not feed you?_ He discarded the thought as soon as it came. Of course, they did, if only for concern of the new king. Ser Arthur had discarded Lyanna as soon as she gave birth. Ned was not sure whether to be grateful to be allowed his sister or angry at the knight for taking her son. _He has his duty and I have mine._

He swallowed his discomfort and checked under his sister’s dress. Her thighs were sticky with blood and after birth and Ned wiped away the fluids as best as he could. There were no other visible wounds. Her wrists looked tender, but the marks were not deep enough to be conclusive evidence of her being bound. Ned stripped her entirely of the soiled garment and dressed her in Howland’s spare garments. Ethan would have been a better fit but his supplies were lost with the Kingsguard.

Ned glanced mournfully at the bodies of his fallen companions. The stones of the tower would have been sufficient for cairns, but the fire prevented that. He was too weak to dig graves and every moment spent on the peninsula brought greater risk to Lyanna and Howland. _Forgive me._

By the time Ned had carried both his sister and Howland to the horses, carrion birds were circling overhead. They would feast well tonight.

Ned tied the remaining five horses together and they moved at a snail’s pace down into the pass. Howland, he tied to the saddle, but Ned walked beside the mount carrying his sister. After a year of uncertainty, Ned was loathed to leave his sister’s side if even for a moment.

It took three times as long to descend into the pass as it did the climb. Their pace was slow and by nightfall Ned was not sure they had covered over ten miles. Howland’s bandages needed to be changed and Lyanna shivered despite the latent heat. Ned forced water down his sister’s throat and then did the same for Howland. They had brought salted beef, bread and dried fruits but Ned was unsure how to feed them. He ate sparingly himself. Slept fitfully against Lyanna.

The village where they had switched their horses in favor of the swifter Dornish breed was a two-day ride to the tower. However, Ned knew that Nightsong was their best bet. House Caron of Nightsong was a principal house in the stormlands and Lord Bryen Caron was instrumental in Robert’s successes at Summerhall. Both Lyanna and Howland needed the treatment of a Maester but Ned was hesitant at the attention it would bring.

A man of knowledge would certainly be able to discern that his sister gave birth recently. Ned thought of the child and his stomach twisted. _I see no babes, only dragonspawn._

Lyanna stirred on the second day. “I’m so sorry Ned.” Was the first thing she whispered. And then, “Jon.” Ned forced his sister to eat, if only a little but her strength still had not fully returned.

Howland came down with a fever and Ned tried to combat the heat with wet bandages around Howland’s brow. Ned changed Howland’s bandages regularly and though the wound was gruesome, he could not see signs of infection. _It could be internal._ Perhaps it was a blessing that Howland remained unconscious as they did not have milk of the poppy to ease his pain.

As they moved through the desert heat, Ned could not help but think of Baelor Targaryen and Aemon the Dragonknight. Aemon had carried the pious king the entire Boneway, all the way to Blackhaven. Ned was glad they had horses.

By the time Ned had reached the village he feared Howland was not long for the world. Willam Dustin’s Red Horse was still in the stables and Ned graciously traded for the return of the horse and then paid the village’s best rider to make haste for Nightsong and send for a Maester. In a letter Ned attached to the rider he wrote of his identity and made intones for urgency.

Several hours later, under the cover of darkness, riders arrived from Nightsong. There were thirty of them along with Lord Bryen Caron himself. The Maester was younger than Ned would have hoped, perhaps five and twenty, but despite his young age he wore a heavy chain and most importantly a silver link.

“Lord Stark.” Lord Bryen greeted. He was as old as Ned’s father would have been. Two and fifty with thinning grey hair and a thick gut. Ned met the lord on the steps of a villager’s home he had paid three silver stags to house Lyanna and Howland on the straw mattresses. “I did not expect to see you this far south.”

The lord did not say it, but the implication was clear. Dorne was still in open Rebellion and as a principal member of the rebellion, these lands were not safe for Ned without an army. Even after the Trident the Dornish Marshes were the setting of a hundred skirmishes. “I had my duty here.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Lord Bryen’s tone was curious but the man did not put his questions into words.

Ned knew his appearance was frightful. His right eye was still swollen shut, his shirt ripped and bloody. Dust clung thick to his boots and formed a thin layer over the rest of his body. At some point his hair tie had fallen and now tangled strands clung framed the side of his face. Talking had once brought the occasional pain but last night his cheek had numbed. Feeling had yet to return.

The Maester stared at Ned. “My Lord, we should seat you, so I can examine your face. That eye looks terrible.”

Ned flinched away from the man’s grasping hands. “Later.” He ground out and then pointed to the hut behind him. “My sister and bannermen are in worse shape. See to them first.”

Lord Bryen’s eyes widened. “Lady Lyanna is _here?_ ”

 _He means alive._ The entire kingdom knew of Lyanna, even if most had never laid eyes on her. “Aye.” Ned replied.

Lord Bryen looked ready to question but the look Ned sent had the lord think otherwise.  The Maester tended to Lyanna and Howland for over two hours. He updated Ned on their progress.

“Your sister will live, though it will be weeks before her strength fully returns. Lord Reed is another matter entirely. There are signs of infection and it may have spread to his blood. He will need to be leached and even then…” The maester trailed off.

Ned nodded. “I know it is grim. Do whatever you can.”

“Even if he does survive, Lord Reed will likely never be the same. He certainly will not sit a horse or fight a war. I think even walking be difficult.”

They spent the night in the village. At daybreak, Lord Byren had a cart prepared for Howland and Lyanna. His men murmured at the sight of Lyanna.

“Wasn’t what I was expecting.” A knight said to his companion.

Ned felt his anger simmer. “And what were you expecting Ser?” Ned questioned with ice in his tone. The man sputtered. Ned stared at him until he walked away. Bryen’s other men learned to keep their thoughts silent. _Brandon wouldn’t have let him leave without drawing blood._ The thought of his wild brother made him sad.

Maester Arven pulled next to Ned on their ride to Nightsong. He spoke in a low voice. “My Lord, I could not help but notice…”

Ned stared at the Maester. He was blonde with green eyes. His face reminded of Ned of the Kingslayer but instead of the arrogance that was on the knight’s face when Ned found him on the throne with the Mad King’s blood still coating the steps, Arven’s eyes were shifty and nervous. “I would appreciate your silence.”

Arven cleared his throat. “The child?”

“Is dead. Stillborn.” Ned said without hesitation. He wondered if lying to Robert would be so easy.

Nightsong was an ancient castle built in the days a hundred kings fought and died over the sands of Dorne. The curtain wall was fifty feet high and the castle itself was built into the cliffside. The towers were twenty feet higher and the wind that blew through the arches made them sing.

Lord Bryen gave Ned the wing closest to the Maester’s chamber. Lyanna was housed next to him and Howland was roomed in an attic adjoined to the Maester’s solar.

Lyanna woke the day after they arrived. She had been washed and changed. Color had returned to her cheeks and Lady Caron’s handmaid had taken care to comb Lyanna’s hair. “Ned.” She called. He was by her side in an instant.

He helped her sit upright. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” Lyanna said bluntly. Her eyes blinked with the effort of finding vision in the dim light. The drapes were pulled shut and their thick, dark material prevented any sunlight from entering Lyanna’s room. He saw her hands fist in the indigo sheets. “Where is my baby?”

Ned hesitated before answering. “Lya-“ He started.

A great sadness seemed to come over his sister. She hid her face in her hair. “I thought it was just a nightmare. You don’t have him, do you? He took him from me.”

Ned nodded carefully. He stroked his sister’s shoulder. “He did Lya, I’m sorry.”

“I have to find him. Ned I can’t leave him alone.” He was surprised when his sister made to leave the bed.

“Lyanna please, right now you need your rest.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her strength had yet to return and she had no power to resist him.

When his sister was back in bed, he spoke just above a whisper. “You cannot mention his name while we remain south. It is too dangerous, for both you and the baby. Do you understand?”

His sister nodded her head though she looked the least bit pleased. “He’s going to Starfall, I know it. The Tower- they kept it stocked with supplies from Starfall. That’s where he took my baby.”

Ned sat back in his seat. Hard and unyielding, the chair had likely bruised his backside from his hours of sitting by Lyanna’s side. “It is no matter Lyanna. At least not for now. If Ser Arthur has any sense, then he will flee Westeros. The kingdom is no place for an infant king.”

“When I am well enough then I will follow.”

A sudden frustration rose within Ned at his sister’s stubbornness. Benjen had told him of Lyanna’s infatuation with Prince Rhaegar and for months Ned had to stew with the knowledge that Robert’s narrative of Lyanna’s rape and kidnap was likely a lie. _A lie that Brandon believed and died for._ “With what ship or what coin?” He asked.

She faltered. “I-“Lyanna paused and stared into Ned’s eyes. He met her gaze with a steel one of his own. “If you won’t provide for me then I can find my own way.”

“And then doom yourself and your son. Do you think no one will notice if you depart to Essos? The Maester here knows you were pregnant once.” Her grey eyes widened. “I told him the baby died- that it never lived. That lie will fall apart as soon as you attempt to leave Westeros.”

“You could lie for me.” Lyanna said quietly, her big eyes stared at him. Once the look she sent him would have had him agree to nearly anything. He knew Brandon and Benjen were weak to the look as well. But now it only brought more anger. _If only we knew how to refuse her, Father and Brandon might still be alive._ The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“No.” Ned growled out. He felt no pleasure at how his sister seemed to shrink but she needed to understand just how dangerous their position truly was. “I have already lied for you. Your son and his knight represent the most dangerous threat to Robert’s rule.” The mutilated bodies of Elia and her children came to the forefront of his mind. He swallowed the bile that threatened to rise. “There will be too many questions if you leave Lyanna. Every knight that escorted us has seen your face and knows your name. Lord Byren will want to send a raven to the capital soon. You can’t expect me to somehow convince them all to take a vow of silence.”

Lyanna chewed her lip. “After we return to the North, I can take a ship from White Harbor.”

Ned breathed deeply. “And from there where? Did Ser Arthur share any details with you of his journey.” The answer was plain by the look on her face.

“Rhaegar expected to win.” She muttered.

 _So, you were both lacking foresight then._ He could forgive his sister for her shortcomings, despite Lyanna’s wildness she also had a touch of tenderness that made her almost too pure for this world. Rhaegar though, he could never forgive. The Prince was older, had been married, he broke his vows, risked his kingdom and then died. “Then you would wander the eastern lands blind. All the while calling attention to yourself and _our_ secret. I won’t allow it.”

“Will you lock me away in a tower? Or marry me off to one of your bannermen? Who would take me now? I am soiled and ruined by all the gods of men.” Her hands tightly fisted the sheets.

“No.” Ned admitted. He rubbed his temples. “I would hope you would come to reason on your own and realize the folly of your plans.”

“To reason?” Lyanna questioned. She shook her head. “He is my son Ned. I cannot expect you to understand but the bond between us cannot be broken. By all rights he should be in my arms, at my breasts. I should be holding him now, not wondering where he has been taken. “

“Actually, I do understand Lya. I am a father as well.” Confusion played across Lyanna’s face. “I had to marry Catelyn to secure the Riverlands.”

“I know. They did not tell me much of the war but that they shared with me.” Her voice was suddenly soft.

He rubbed his sister’s hand. “The news reached me when I lifted the siege of Storm’s End. I haven’t seen my boy yet and every fiber of my being wants to go North and meet my wife in Winterfell. To hold my child in my arms, to see the color of his hair and hear his laughter as he discovers the world around him. And yet I had my duty to find you. I thought I would be carting your bones back, but the gods saw fit to give my sister back to me. Alive and well.” He kissed her knuckles. “I don’t want to lose you again Lyanna. If any man can keep your son safe, then it is Ser Arthur Dayne. But it is my duty to keep my sister safe. Allow me to do just that.”

They were silent for quite a while. Lyanna seemed to digest his words but her furrowed brow revealed that she was far from content with just his plea to placate her. “What now?” She asked.

Ned grimaced. “When you have fully recovered, and Howland is fit to travel we must go to King’s Landing.” Lyanna visibly stiffened. He continued. “Tywin Lannister intends to wed his daughter to Robert and make her queen.”

“Let her have it.” Lyanna said without hesitation.

“Would you not have been Rhaegar’s queen if he had lived?” Ned asked. He watched a flurry of emotions play across Lyanna’s face. They were too subtle for him to discern.

“Robert is not Rhaegar.”

“And yet still he fought a war for you and has forced Tywin Lannister to wait until I brought word of your fate. Marry him or refuse him, the news must be delivered in person and not by letter. Especially if we are to sell this lie.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a few chapters in the direct aftermath of the rebellion before a time skip occurs. I do not intend to rehash canon but instead intend to show the effects that a few characters who were supposed to die have on the game of thrones. 
> 
> As this fic goes on it will get increasingly divergent. Also magic will take awhile to appear despite the title. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one and comments are very appreciated. 
> 
> Also a couple of characters ages will be altered. Keen eyed readers should notice in the next chapter.


	3. Chamber of the Weirwood Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starfall.

**The Lord Commander**

 

Ser Arthur had not seen his sister for over a year. The last sight of her had been on the beaches of Dragonstone as he and Oswell left with Prince Rhaegar to the Riverlands. His heart had been in his throat when the news of the sack of King’s Landing had finally reached them, and for days all he could think of was his sister dead in some ditch or suffering from a worse fate. Elia had been her closest friend and Ashara was loathed to abandon her even when the danger became clear. Then word came from his father, Ashara had fled the city before the Battle of the Trident and arrived at Starfall before the sack of King's Landing.

The chamber atop of Palestone Sword tower had always been his sister’s favorite. It was one of the only structures of the castle to survive the fury of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wife Visenya. Much of the castle had been turned to ruin by dragon fire, and even the tower had not escaped unscathed. Outside the melted white stones gave the tower the appearance of a weeping candle but the interior had been repurposed by various Lords over the three centuries. Four floor-to-ceiling painted glass windows opened to an encircling balcony of stone and wrought iron bars. Palestone tower jutted over the cliffside, some two hundred feet tall and had unobstructed views in every direction. Like always Ashara had positioned the rocking chair to face where the Torretine river met the coast and the base of the red mountains. Her dark hair was done in a simple braid that snaked across one shoulder. She wore a dazzling azure dress trimmed with white samite that hung low on her collar. He saw her slippers laying on a Myrish rug a few feet away from her. Her chair rocked steadily beneath her.

Ashara did not notice him until the baby she held at her shoulders opened his eyes, grey orbs the color of a storm, and giggled. The baby boy had his mother’s wavy black hair. A head full of it even at his young age. When Arthur looked up his sister’s bright eyes arrested him. A slight upturn of her lips was his greeting.

"Hello, little sister.” Arthur greeted. He bent to one knee. "Hello, little one. What is your name?” The baby giggled and reached out with his little fist. Arthur waved to his nephew but did not touch him. He was still covered in blood and a thin layer of dust covered his skin. He knew he smelled terrible.

“Rickard Stark.”

Arthur rose an eyebrow. Ashara had the grace to blush.

“His father-“

“The lordling from Harrenhal.” When Arthur heard of his sister’s affection for the heir of Winterfell he grew worried. Ashara was not one to take an interest lightly. His sister loved love songs as much as she loved counting sums and their father had always joked the gods had meant to give them a maester and erred somewhere in the process. The entire realm knew of Brandon Stark’s betrothal to Catelyn Tully. Such betrothals between the families of Lord Paramounts had been one of the chief reasons Rhaegar had orchestrated the Tourney of Harrenhal in the first place.

“Yes him.” Ashara smiled.

“Stark not Sand?”

Ashara understood his meaning. “Or Dayne. We married in the black cells…before he…he.”

“Sssh, it's okay." He stroked her thigh, still on one knee. "Were there any witnesses?”

His sister dropped her head. “The guard stood watch. We wanted a septon but the risk was too great. I told him I was with child and Brandon was insistent that we wed.”

“How did you two-“ Arthur trailed off, uncomfortable with the thought of anyone touching his sister. She had always been beautiful. Troublingly so. If their House had maintained their influence and wealth from the days of old, Ashara might have wed Rhaegar in Princess Elia’s place. _Would Rhaegar have looked elsewhere with you at his side?_ It troubled him that he did not know the answer.

“The Riverlands.” Ashara would have left it there but the look he sent her had her speak more. “We promised to exchange letters after the tourney. I thought he wouldn’t. He tried kissing me after Lonmouth…” Ashara shifted in discomfort. Arthur’s fist clenched. “But I wasn’t ready, and he did not press. Instead, we talked and laughed and danced."

“He was to be wed Ashara. No matter his feelings I doubt his father would have let him break the betrothal.” Arthur tried to keep the scorn from his voice. No doubt their mother had already filled Ashara’s ear with it.

“I know. I’m stupid.” Ashara’s shoulder slumped.

“Not stupid.” Arthur disagreed. Rickard laughed his approval. “Impulsive perhaps but when have Daynes ever not been?”

In a small voice, Ashara asked, "Who did you kill this time?"

"Northmen," Arthur answered. His sister stiffened. "Eddard Stark is alive. Or at least he was when I left. Provided he does not get lost in the desert, then he should live.”

“Is that wise?” Even as she asked the question, relief flooded her voice. Arthur thought about Eddard Stark often. He wondered how long the man would keep his promise. How long would it be till the usurper's knives were after them?

"No," Arthur admitted. Killing Eddard Stark and burning his body along with all the others would have left a puzzle with too few pieces to solve.

“Then why did you let him live?”

“Our new King’s mother begged me to let her brother live. I could not refuse her.”

Ashara’s eyes widened. “Lyanna, is she here?” Arthur shook his head. The tower had been stocked with supplies from his childhood home, but he and his brothers had seen it fit to not share the entirety of details with his family. At first, the discretion was born out of fear of the king’s spider, Lord Varys. Harrenhal would have been Rhaegar’s greatest triumph and this entire war could have been avoided. If it were not for Varys and his little birds. _Consider yourself fortunate spider. You would have been one of the first to have been cleansed._

“She was not long for this world. I left her to spend the last moments with her brother.” In the few hours he had slept, he dreamed of Lyanna, of her face and the hurt in her storm-eyes when he denied her request to hold her son. _My duty is to my king._ That was what he told himself but even now the action left a poor taste in his mouth. He wondered what Ashara would think if he told her.

Ashara looked down at her feet. “Brandon spoke so highly of her. I always wanted to meet her.”

“You can meet her son.” Arthur’s voice was laced with conviction. He led his sister and nephew from the tower. It was an hour after the dawning sun and the castle was alive with activity though Palestone was separated from the main artery of activity. The few servants that had seen them gaped at Ser Arthur's state of dress, but none disturbed them. Starfall was near as old as the dawning days of civilization and most servants belonged to families that had served their family for generations, some for centuries. Still, Ser Arthur had taken precautions. He and Wylla arrived in the night through a tunnel in the crypts that opened just beyond the curtain wall.

Wylla was in a small, comfy room that overlooked the Torretine. A soft rug was under her feet and she sat in a rocking chair. The king was wrapped in a bundle of blankets in her arms. When Ashara first laid her eyes on the king, she made the noise all women make when they saw an infant or a kitten.

The midwife moved to stand but Ashara stopped her. “No sit. You don’t look half as bad as my smelly brother, but I am sure the journey here was long enough. “ Wylla smiled. She was of an age with Arthur, ten years Ashara’s elder though her four children had aged the woman much faster. Pleasant laughing lines decorated the midwife’s face and her honey-colored hair was held back with a simple green band.

“Do you wish to hold him? I can hold your little one for you.” Rickard threw a small fit when his mother swapped him for Aemon.

Ashara laid a kiss on her son’s temple while she rocked the sleeping king. “Sssh little one. This is your cousin. He is handsome just like you.” She cooed at both babies and then released a sound of excitement. “He’s waking up Arthur. Hello little king, it is nice to meet you.”

The sight brought him both joy and regret. _I cannot ask her to join us now._

Footsteps at the doorway drew Arthur’s attention. His father and brother stood there. Lord Dayne was a year older than sixty, an inch shorter than Arthur with shoulders unbent by time. His blonde hair and beard were now entirely grey but his blue eyes were as sharp as Arthur could remember. He wore a robe of dark velvet with a white underdress and his left hand clutched a cane of ironwood.  Elladan was a replica of their father from twenty years ago. Though the creases around his purple eyes made his elder brother look far older. “The gods have answered my prayers. My son has returned to me.” Lord Dayne moved to embrace Arthur but stopped halfway. “I think someone needs to bathe. You look and smell like death.”

“None of that blood is yours I suppose?” Elladan asked. The brothers clasped each other's arms. They were half-brothers in truth. Born to different mothers and separated by seven years. Though that had hardly mattered when they were growing up. Elladan was thin were Arthur was broad, black-haired where Arthur was pale blonde and his smiles came far easier.

“Do you need to ask? Your brother is not known as the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms without reason.” Arthur saw the moment his father noticed the new baby in Ashara’s arms. “I don’t suppose this one is yours.” He asked Wylla with a rueful grin.

Wylla shook her head. “No m’lord.”

“Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell?” Lord Dayne asked. Arthur shook his head. “I am sorry Arthur.”

“They did their duty. That is all any of us can ask for.” Elladan and Ashara frowned at his words but neither voiced their complaints.

“And this one here, what is he now? A prince…a bastard?” Lord Dayne questioned. He stood by Wylla’s shoulder and carefully stroked Rickard’s head.

“A king.” Ser Arthur said simply.

“The forces on Dragonstone would argue. Queen Rhaella requests all who remain loyal to House Targaryen to support her son’s claim to the throne. King Viserys, third of his name and rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. One letter was even sent here to Starfall, I think she meant for it to reach you.” Elladan said.

“Prince Viserys is the second son of King Aerys, Rhaegar was the first. His son is in line after him.” Arthur reminded.

“If the second son was legitimate. A bastard does not inherit.” Elladan countered.

“Rhaegar married Lyanna on the Isle of Faces. With Aegon dead, Aemon is his heir. I intend to sit him on the throne the Usurper stole.” Arthur was growing tired of his brother’s arguments.

“And do you think the realm will accept a son of a union no one had any knowledge of? Viserys is the son of a royal union twice over, Lord Lucerys Velaryon is gathering the royal fleet to support his claim and when Prince Oberyn returns who do you think he will support? The son of a woman that displaced his sister? Dorne will not support this king of yours.”

The room grew silent. Lord Dayne’s eyes were pensive. Ashara clutched Aemon tightly and looked between her brothers. Wylla did her best to entertain Rickard who began to fuss at the noise they were making.

Arthur grit his teeth. “What is your point brother?”

Elladan’s voice turned soft. “I am simply advising caution and asking you to pay attention to your options. If the queen and prince should survive the conflict on Dragonstone then Viserys will be a far more viable claimant to the throne then the child we have here. Viserys is of proven birth and given time loyalist might flock to his cause. But this boy? No one knows of him and by the time you can press his claim, Rhaegar may as well have been forgotten.”

Despite how much he wanted to deny it, Arthur realized his brother did speak truly. _Rhaegar’s adherence to secrecy protects us as much as it wounds our cause._ Still, Arthur resisted. “I will not abandon Rhaegar’s son.”

“And no one is expecting or asking you to abandon him. I can claim him as a bastard of mine. He will be raised with a Lord’s education, alongside his cousin. Safe and secure, he could live a full life. If the Queen and her son do live past Dragonstone then you can join her cause. If not, we can establish a household for you in Lys until a pardon can be guaranteed. I would rather see my brother live a full and happy life than commit himself to a fruitless suicide mission.”

"No," Arthur said. _A king to a bastard, I will not allow it._

“Have reason Art-“ Elladan began.

“I swore a vow. If this child is even half as capable as his father then he will make a king as great as Jaehaerys the Conciliator. The realm deserves that much.”

“The realm?” Elladan questioned with a scoff. “Arthur this is folly.”

“You do not wear a white cloak. I would not expect you to understand.”

“Ser Barristan wears a white cloak and he has maintained it and his life by bending the knee when he knew he was defeated.  I am not expecting you to bend the knee, I am simply asking for my little brother to not throw his life away.”

“I am not Ser Barristan.” _My knees do not bend so easily._

"Enough you two." Their father interrupted. He shook his head; a weary expression was on his face. "Neither of you knew how to concede an argument. Elladan you will never win this one. His mother was an exceptionally stubborn woman, the Seven bless her heart. Arthur, you should bathe so we can discuss the realm's affairs without fear of our noses being permanently corrupted." He flashed a wide grin. “Do not worry. I will post guards at the end of the hall while you do and see to it that no one approaches this section of the tower. “

“I will stay with Wylla and Aemon while you get clean Arthur." Ashara said with a smile. Arthur looked at his sister and could not help but smile as well. Wylla held Rickard so he could peer down at his cousin. Rickard babbled at Aemon, an enthusiastic smile on his face. Aemon only seemed to have eyes for Ashara. He smiled reflexively and grasped her finger in his tiny palm. The sight was a comfort. It had been a persistent worry that the Lyanna would birth a sickly child or a child that would not live at all. Aegon had been born sickly but had gained strength from days spent in his father’s arm. Rhaenys was born tiny and far too quiet but had grown into a happy and beautiful child. The thought of the children made him sad. _Aemon will never know his brother and sister but I will make sure that we avenge them._

Blood and dirt caked on his skin turned his bath water dark grey. Wylla had seen to Lyanna's health and hygiene but the tower provided little options for him and his brothers. The months without a proper bath, a bucket and sponge was a poor substitute, made the soak seem a great luxury. When he emerged, clad in a grey tunic with black breeches, Arthur still felt naked. His armor had felt like a second skin and the soft clothing was a poor substitute for the steel.

His father and siblings were gathered around the ancient weirwood table in the war room of Palestone tower. The chamber was an old, dimly lit room of a storied history. At the carved table a hundred Kings of the Torrentine had planned their wars until Vorian Dayne was defeated by Queen Nymeria. Amongst his family were his father’s most loyal and formidable knights. There was the familiar face of Ser Gawaine Carring, the knight who Arthur had squired for. He was near as old as Lord Dayne with black hair that was well salted. The identical faces of Artan and Ulrick Spyre were familiar as well. They were the third and fourth sons of their lord father and had come into Lord Dayne’s service after Ser Arthur had donned his white cloak at the age of eight and ten. The boys had grown into tall knights, broad of shoulder and hair of light blonde. Artan styled himself with a forked beard while Ulrick went cleanly shaven. 

Ser Gawaine stood and shook Arthur’s arm with a fierce grip. “I see time has not made an old cripple of you yet.”

Ser Gawaine released a hearty laugh. “I see time at court has not improved your jokes. Good thing you have not lost your sword.”

“It is good to see you old man," Arthur said. 

“And you as well my friend.” Ser Gawaine answered. His left arm was held in a sling and Arthur had noticed the look of discomfort when the knight stood. “Just a flesh wound taken at the Trident. It will heal, fear not.”

Arthur grimaced. “I should have been there.”

“We all know you had your duty. No slight against your honor.”

 _Bugger honor._ Arthur thought but he did not voice his disagreement. It had been Rhaegar’s decision to leave them behind for Lyanna’s protection, though the girl would call it for her imprisonment, he was sure. He and his brothers had argued but Rhaegar’s will was iron.

“If you had been the Usurper would lay in the ground and the singers would elevate you to the level of Symeon Star eyes or Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. I think the gods wished to save some glory for the rest of us mortal men.” Artan quipped.

Ulrick rolled his eyes. “Forgive my brother Ser Arthur. We all know he is the dumb twin.”

“And the more handsome one," Artan responded.

Arthur embraced both men. “Glad to see you both were too stubborn to die.”

“Shara tells us we have a new king?” Artan questioned with a raised brow. Arthur looked at his sister who had the grace to smile sheepishly. 

“Aye. King Aemon Targaryen, first of his name, son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark.” There was little reaction to Lyanna’s name which told Arthur that his sister had likely divulged the full story to the knights. 

"A good name," Ulrick said.

“Let him grow as fierce as the Dragonknight," Artan said with cheer.

"Sit all of you. We have business to discuss." Lord Dayne ordered. They sat around the roundtable. Age had turned the wooden table to stone and roughened its edges. It was large enough to seat seven and the falling star of House Dayne was carved into its center. Servants filed into the room and with them came Dornish reds, grapes, soft bread with a buttered center, spiced meat and dark spring leaves with small tomatoes from gardens in the Reach. They raised a glass once to Rhaegar’s memory and then again for Aemon. Even Elladan took up the cheer.

Through bites of his meal, Artan asked, “Do you intend to join with the queen on Dragonstone?”

"No," Arthur admitted. He was just one man and no sailor. The queen needed an army and despite his disdain for the man, Arthur acknowledged that Lord Lucerys was perhaps the best man left to guard the Queen and the prince.

“Dorne cannot help her. We have no ships to lend aid and our army suffered heavy losses at the Trident.” Ser Gawaine answered. His eyes were full of remorse. No knight was comfortable with defeat, especially those who seldom lost.

“Fucking Corbray bled us dearly. I saw him kill Prince Lewyn though he could hardly stand.” Artan said with a grimace.

Arthur remembered the protectiveness Lewyn had for his niece and the anger he had for Rhaegar after Harrenhal. It was only by the counsel of his brothers and paramour that Lewyn did not confront Rhaegar nor attempt to steal Elia and her children away. _He died with honor despite Aerys’ callousness. A true knight indeed._

“If the Velaryon fleet can seal a victory at Dragonstone then this war is not over," Ulrick said.

Arthur disagreed. “Even if there is a victory on the Blackwater, this war is over. Highgarden has bent the knee and will not raise its banners again for a boy king or an infant.” _They chose to play the game rather than fight for Rhaegar when duty compelled them to._ Every bone in Arthur’s body longed to repay them in kind but he knew that the Reach would be key to winning Aemon’s throne. _I can only hope that Highgarden remains estranged when Aemon is old enough to launch our invasion._ Four kingdoms would soon be tied to Robert’s crown and of the remaining, only the Reach could field an army large enough to convince enough minor lords the worth of flocking to Aemon’s banner. Arthur knew that Aemon would need to be a warrior comparable to his father for that to happen. _No, he will need to be better than Rhaegar ever was._

Ulrick smiled. “You haven’t heard, Prince Oberyn is in Lys recruiting sellsword companies. Word is he is that he wants to declare for Viserys though we all know it is for vengeance for Princess Elia.”

 _You will protect my sister, yes? She is your princess twice over._ Oberyn had asked him that after Elia was chosen to be Rhaegar’s wife. The words were a mantra in Arthur’s head when he did battle with the Smiling Knight. An outlaw who dared to steal a kiss from the princess.

 _With my life._ Ser Arthur had responded. _Another failure._ A grape crushed in his grip. He was not surprised. Prince Oberyn had spent most of the last decade in Essos after his duel with Lord Edgar Yronwood left the older man with festering wounds that ultimately killed him. That duel had forged Oberyn’s dangerous reputation and in the intervening years, the Prince had only added it to. Arthur respected the man’s martial prowess but he did not trust him, especially with his new King’s life in such a delicate balance.

“Prince Oberyn will seek war even if the spears of Dorne are the only that join him, Prince Doran is of a different sort.” Lord Dayne counseled.

“Oberyn will want war regardless of the chance of success. I will not gamble Aemon’s life on his pursuit of vengeance.” Arthur did not know how Oberyn would react to Aemon’s presence. He remembered the dark look that had crossed the Red Viper’s face when Rhaegar had crowned Lyanna. Elia’s words had stopped her brother from seeking recompense. _Elia is dead now and I doubt there is anyone alive who can cool his fire._

“Then if not Dragonstone or Oberyn what is your plan brother?” Elladan questioned. Arthur did not like his brother’s tone.

“Westeros remains too dangerous for Aemon. Starfall is safe for now but the Usurper has decided to let the Spider keep his head and Varys has eyes everywhere. I would not fool myself into believing that I can stay on this continent for long without word reaching Robert. I intend to take the king to Essos. Lys would be best I think; his hair will hardly be of notice.” Arthur finished. He would claim Aemon as his son until the boy could handle his true heritage.

“Exile then? Know what you are giving up Arthur." Elladan pressed.

“I bound myself to House Targaryen long ago. I will die before I break that vow.” His tone was iron. Elladan pursed his lips but did not speak.

“What comes after Lys?” Ulrick asked. Both twins leaned forward on their elbows.

“Braavos I think. Prince Rhaegar left a small fortune in a vault at the Iron Bank, completely separate from any holdings of House Targaryen. When Aemon is old enough, he is entitled to claim as Rhaegar’s only surviving heir.” The majority of the coin had been used to sponsor the Tourney at Harrenhal but a useful sum should remain. Rhaegar had been making investments in the account ever since Duskendale.

Ulrick was certainly the quicker of the twins. “I imagine that coin will be used to recruit more than a few sellswords to Aemon’s cause? Perhaps a company of your own?”

“Bittersteel meets Ser Arthur Dayne.” Artan quipped. That drew a laugh from everyone except Elladan.

“Bittersteel had the advantage of rallying Daemon Blackfyre’s supporters directly after Daemon had fallen and he led a sizable group to Essos. Robert Baratheon has either pardoned or sentenced most knights who remained loyal to the wall. You can’t expect the same results.”

Elladan’s dour words dampened the mood. “You speak truthfully brother. Seating Aemon on his throne will not be a simple matter. Sellswords are but one component and where Bittersteel erred is his failure to recruit a Lord Paramount to his cause.”

“I thought we were discounting Oberyn?” Artan asked.

“Oberyn will not rest until Elia and her children are avenged but Dorne will be crushed if they declare for Viserys now or even a year from now. It is too early. But Aemon can provide an avenue for their vengeance later. When it is time father, I would ask for you to speak to Prince Doran on our behalf.”

Lord Dayne nodded. “I will my son, but you know they will demand more than the promise of vengeance for their support. Marriage I think. Doran does have a young daughter.”

Arthur remembered. “Arianne will be the ruling Princess of Dorne.”

“Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is hardly a sacrifice and Doran has a son as well to secure his line.”

“Arianne is seven years older than Aemon. “ Artan said with a hint of protest.

Ever the student of history Ashara pointed out, “Larra Rogare was seven years older than Viserys II and she gave birth to both a king and a queen as well as the Dragonknight, interestingly enough.”

Ulrick smirked. “She left the capital before she became queen.”

Before his sister could reply, Arthur responded. “Arianne is a viable choice though not the best. Dorne brings us twenty thousand men at the most and it is questionable that those men could remain in the field for long. The very nature of our kingdom makes any protracted war not fought in our sands difficult. I would hope for a match that would bring us more men.”

“Mace Tyrell’s daughter?” Lord Dayne guessed. “She was born just this year. I heard her father celebrated her birth outside of Storm’s End.” _While Stannis Baratheon starved in his castle._

“She is an age of Aemon and more importantly brings eighty thousand men with her hand.” Arthur reasoned. _And half Hightower. If only Gerold lived then I could chance contacting them sooner._ Gerold was close with his nephew, Lord Leyton Hightower and perhaps The White Bull could have brought the Reach into the fold. _I am no politician._

“And what if Jon Arryn has the same thoughts? The Tyrells are ambitious but cautious, I doubt they would play their hand if victory is far from a guarantee.”

Arthur paused to digest and consider his father’s words. “I would take another page out of the Blackfyre playbook and court the secondary houses. The Florents and Tyrells have always had a bitter feud. Mace Tyrell took credit for Randall Tarly’s victory, House Darry remained loyal in the Riverlands, several of the Vale lords even stayed loyal on the Trident…” Arthur trailed off, deep in thought. _The west will be difficult. If Tywin had not exterminated Houses Tarback and Reyne then they would be a natural choice._ _Ryger, Rowan, Mooten all remained loyal. Small houses for sure but there is many who would seek advancement-_

“What of the North?” Ashara asked. Her question brought an uncomfortable silence.

“Eddard Stark remains loyal to Robert Baratheon. That is unlikely to change.”

“You spared his life Arthur and Aemon is his nephew. Brandon and Ned adored Lyanna, why would he not support her son.” Arthur fought back the urge to yell at his sister. For as smart as she was, Ashara was at times very naïve.

“Aemon’s grandfather burned the previous Lord Stark alive, executed Eddard’s brother and put hundreds of Northmen to death. His father is believed to have kidnapped Aemon’s mother and the entire kingdom thinks Rhaegar raped Lyanna for months on end. Even if Eddard Stark does not hold Aemon responsible for the crimes and faults of those who became before him, his bannermen will. This does not even take into account that Eddard spent half his life growing up with the Usurper. They are as close brothers. When Stark came to the Tower, there is no telling what would have been Aemon’s fate. I am sorry Ashara but when Aemon lands on Westeros again I do expect Eddard Stark will be fighting against us.” _The brother you grew up with or the boy who shares your blood, what will you choose?_

“Should we not at least consider the possibility of an alliance? I know it will not be easy but Ned would not be keen on fighting on the other side of his own blood. Any daughter Ned has ties to the North, Riverlands and the Vale.” Ashara persisted.

“Stark would not go to war against his foster brother. At best we can hope the North abstains and even that treads the line of being too optimistic. Believing otherwise is folly. House Tully entered the war late but their string of marriages may as well have won Robert his crown, they will not flip sides either.” Aegon the Conqueror had shown the merit of treating your defeated enemies with mercy so that the next day they could become your fierce allies. Arthur intended to teach Aemon this lesson but the only mercy Hoster Tully would find would be the wall. _Stark and even Robert were justified in rebelling when Aerys called for their heads. I cannot fault Arryn either but Tully played the game of thrones rather than remaining loyal. For that, their time as great lords will end. And Tywin…_ Just the name of the man brought a bitter taste to his mouth. _I will show him the mercy he gave Aegon and Rhaenys._ His fist clenched and the wound Ned Stark inflicted on his hand opened. The wrap around his hand stained red.

Artan released a breath. "Well, I suppose you cannot raise a child _and_ army alone. Where do I get one of those fancy white cloaks?”

Ser Gawaine laughed heartily. “And deprive yourself of all the kitchen maids in the world? I doubt you could last a year.”

“Do not forget the miller’s wife, sisters of blacksmiths, farmer’s goats…” Artan threw a grape at his brother. Ulrick caught the fruit and popped it in his mouth. "Well, you cannot have one of us without the other. If he gets a white cloak, then I want one as well.”

Arthur was surprised. The brothers had always been competitive and quick to action but this was not a decision anyone made lightly. “I would advise you both to think upon this decision. If word gets to Robert Baratheon then we may never have a safe night’s rest again. There is little glory in exile.”

“When did you grow so old Arthur?” Artan joked.

“Responsibility has the effect of aging you. Let us hope it gives you wisdom as well.” Ulrick answered. He looked at Arthur. "My brother and I are the third and fourth sons of a minor lord, glory is all we can hope for. What would be more glorious than restoring Rhaegar’s son to the throne?”

“I say only fighting side by side with the Sword of the Morning.” Artan finished. The brother’s bumped their fist. Arthur grinned.

“A white cloak is not something I would give easily. It will need to be earned. Not just by sword or valor but by sleepless nights and constant vigilance as every corner may hide an assassin meant to kill our king. Your families cannot know as a whisper to the wrong person could reach Varys' ears." He looked each twin in the eyes, their gazes were unflinching. "And there is a possibility that we will fail. Half the realm rose for Daemon Blackfyre and he and his sons still died in a hail of arrows. By the time we land, the Targaryen name could be meaningless. A forgotten death could await you both." There was a pause before Artan answered.

“Let us hope you do not use that pitch when recruiting sellswords.” Artan looked to his twin. They nodded.

"We won't be dissuaded," Ulrick answered.

The two reminded Arthur of Myles Mooton. Fierce and hungry for glory he had been with a reverence for Prince Rhaegar only surpassed by Jon Connington. _Their birth order will only bring a few men to Aemon's cause but their loyalty may keep him alive._ Arthur accepted.

“Aemon will be ignorant of anything that does not involve a sword or an axe-“

“Don’t get forget the war-hammer.” Artan interrupted. Ashara glared in answer.

“A king needs to know more than war if he is to be a successful ruler. Sums, the histories of the Seven Kingdoms, the heraldry of houses great and small, how to treat his queen-“

“Do not worry Ashara, I can teach the king the many secrets of women.” Ulrick shook his head at his twin.

“If you mean how to teach the king how to disappoint kitchen maids then I think we can skip that lesson.” That drew laughter from them all, Artan included. Ser Gawaine wiped tears away from his eyes.

"Your beauty and wit will be sorely missed, my lady," Ulrick said.

"You are mistaken, Ulrick. I do not plan to allow you and your twin to corrupt our future king. I am coming as well.” Ashara’s smile was playful. She turned her bright eyes to Arthur. “That it is why you came to me first before seeing anyone else, was it not?”

Amazed by his sister’s intuitiveness, Arthur nodded. “I did not know of Rickard. I could not ask you to put your son in danger.”

Arthur watched his sister’s dainty fingers dance across the surface of the table.  “I know the risk but why else would our house be blessed with two young boys, so close in age and blood in times such as these? Brandon died because he wanted to protect his sister’s honor; Lyanna died to bring her son into the world. It seems cruel to separate them when they could grow up to be as close as brothers.”

 _As noble as any queen._ "Thank you," Arthur told her. He felt his heart lift. _The king will grow with his blood._ He could not help but think of Aegon the Conqueror and his half-brother Orys.

There was a look of resignation on Elladan’s face. He shook his head. “I love you both too much to be content with the danger you are placing yourselves in, but I will support both of you until my dying day.”

Arthur clasped his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “I could not ask for a better brother.”

Lord Dayne smiled sadly. “There is a matter of contention. The Iron Bank is notoriously strict with laws of inheritance and they will not release any funds without proof of Aemon’s heritage.”

Arthur was prepared. “I brought the marriage cloak from the Prince’s union with Lyanna and I am surviving witness, noted Kingsguard and outside of the bankers themselves, I am the only man alive who is aware of the account.”

“Perhaps it will be enough. A son comes before a brother in all laws of succession, but the bank is known to be a stickler at times.” Lord Dayne said.

Arthur frowned. _We need the funds from the bank._ Starfall derived much of their wealth on the trade that traveled down the Torretine from the gardens of the Reach but disputes and incompetence from their forebears had led to losses that significantly impacted their house’s finances. Arthur knew that in order to successfully feign ignorance of Arthur’s plots, his family could not overextend their support in coin.

“Fortunately, Ulrick did recover something of value on the Trident.” This time, Arthur’s father’s smile was brighter. He motioned to the young knight.

Ulrick sighed. “Artan rode with Prince Lewyn and fought on the right flank but I had the privilege of fighting in Prince Rhaegar’s honor guard. When Robert’s hammer fell, the rubies in the Prince’s breastplate were knocked clear and the battlefield went mad trying to claim them." He reached underneath the table a pulled forth a sword-shaped bundle. "Rhaegar's body was trampled in the scramble and his sword slid in the river, still wet with the blood from the wound he had given the Usurper. A stormlander pulled it from the water and I slew him to claim the blade. I may have failed to protect our prince but at least this pretty sword will not go to waste.”

Arthur unwrapped the offered sword. There was no doubt. Bright steel greeted his eyes. Steel that shined redly with the light of the sun and blue with the light of the moon. It was Qohorik forged, gifted to Rhaegar on the day he was knighted. Far superior to any castle-forged steel, lighter with a sharper edge though not unbreakable like Dawn or a blade of Valyrian steel and the edge still needed to be honed. Valyrian glyphs were inscribed in the blade's deep fuller. _Flame of the West._ The crossguard and hilt were a shade of steel darker, ending in open crescents with a bright ruby embedded into the pommel. Frayed leather encircled the grip.

"This will do," Arthur said, his voice uncharacteristically thick with emotion. _Rhaegar carried this blade for years and now his son will do so after him._

“I think he is speechless.” Ashara teased. She leaned across her chair and kissed Arthur’s cheek. “That is a very good sign.”

Elladan rapped his knuckles against the stone table. “Artan and Ulrick can get away with departing to Essos. Many younger sons of Dorne have done so before but you, Arthur, draw attention wherever your name is mentioned. Ashara’s departure will only intensify the interest.”

Ashara agreed. “We need a story. Fake our deaths? Rickard is still young and ravens have not been sent to announce his birth. We could spin a tale that I died in the birthing bed.”

Lord Dayne shook his head. “Too many have seen your son for that tale to work.”

“Plenty of children die in their first few months. A sudden chill could have taken the child and you jumped from this tower in grief.” Ulrick offered.

Ashara winced. “Rather morbid but that could work. If Rickard and I isolate ourselves until we leave then the tale could be even more believable.”

“What of you Arthur? Another suicide would be hard to believe.” Ser Gawaine asked.

Arthur thought long and hard before he spoke. _Ned Stark knows that I am alive and he is under no obligation to tell his king otherwise. If I were to fake my death and the ruse was_ _to be discovered then the scrutiny could damn Aemon before we are ready._ “Attempting to hide myself would be folly. Varys will send his spies to Starfall regardless of what lie we can construct and we cannot expect the truth to not be revealed for a decade or more. Let them craft stories about me. Say that I intend to join the king on Dragonstone or have turned to the east and joined a sellsword company. I want the Usurper to know that I am alive. For the singers to write songs of my return. Alone I am no true threat, but Robert will know that I am out there with my sword sharp and my anger unsated. I hope he has nightmares of Dawn at his throat. And when Rhaegar’s son returns he will know that those dreams had truth.”

Artan and Ulrick pounded their fists on the table.

“Stars Fall.” Lord Dayne started.

“We Rise.” The Dayne siblings finished.

Ser Gawaine rose his glass and stood from his seat. “To Aemon of House Targaryen, first of his name.”

“King of the Andals.” Artan continued. They rose to their feet one by one.  

“The Rhoynar," Ulrick said.

“And the First Men.” Ashara took up the chant.

“Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.” Lord Dayne boomed.

“And Protector of the Realm.” Arthur finished.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, taking the throne is a daunting task. Ser Arthur knows the path ahead is full of pitfalls that could completely engulf them. If you are worried that this fic will be one where Jon wins the throne very easily and all his opponents are made villains or incompetent then I hope to prove that is not the case for this story.


	4. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddard and Lyanna reach King's Landing, peace is negotiated.

**Eddard Stark**

He had seen his sister cry more in the past few weeks than he had ever saw her before. There was a sense of guilt in his chest. Lyanna had been locked in that blasted tower for much of the war and the only details she was privileged to were those that the Kingsguard had spooned fed her. Perhaps it would have been a mercy to omit the grislier of details, but every time Ned tried Lyanna would press for more.

“Tell me of how _they_ died.” Lyanna questioned in the quiet of their tent. The news of Lyanna’s survival had promoted Robert to send a hundred of his best men as a mounted escort to the capital. Their king’s intent was clear.

“Lya this is not a story you should hear.” Ned said gently. He had taken to sleeping in the same tent as his sister. Ever since they had left Nightsong, Lyanna had been plagued by night terrors and woke half the camp with her screaming. Only Ned’s presence seemed to placate his sister’s dreams. Still, he worried with every bit of detail he was forced to share. The realm had taken many scars from the Rebellion and Lyanna seemed intent to place the blame upon herself for each of those scars.

“Tell me!” Lyanna growled and so Ned did.

“Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch scaled the walls of the holdfast...” Ned trailed off, not wanting to continue but his sister tightened her grip on his arm and the words spilled from his lips. “Clegane killed the young prince, dashed his head against the walls and then raped Princess Elia.”

His sister’s gasp pierced the air. “They told me that Elia and her children were killed but they did not tell me how. I-“ Her words caught in her throat. “What happened to Rhaenys?” Lyanna whispered.

Ned’s jaw tightened but despite himself, he continued speaking. “Lorch stabbed her half a hundred times. In the chest and then he went for her eyes. Neither child was recognizable when Tywin wrapped them and their mother in Lannister cloaks and presented the bodies to Robert.”

Light from the full moon and star-lit sky just pierced the fabric of their tint. Ned could just make out his sister’s grimace. “What was Robert’s reaction?”

 _I see no babes. Only dragonspawn._ He could hear the shake in his sister’s voice. Ned could not tell her that. Instead he found himself saying, “He’s a good man Lyanna. Sometimes war makes good men cruel.” _Are those words to reassure Lyanna or myself?_ Robert’s blatant dismissal of the unnecessary brutality of Elia Martell and her children’s killing had left Ned in a rage. Not even Jon Arryn could calm that storm.

“The walls were supposed to protect them. The city watch was supposed to protect them. Ser Jaime was supposed to protect them.” Lyanna said in a mantra.

“Aye.” Ned said only because he knew naught else to say. When Robert had declared himself in the weeks before the Trident, Ned knew there would be more blood spilled. Rhaegar’s heirs would always bear the threat of a rebellion forming around them. He had hoped the prince could have been sent to the Wall, the Night’s Watch vows were unbreakable, and Robert could marry his heir to the Princess but that had been a fool’s dream.

Lyanna’s sobs rocked her body for more than half the night. All Ned could do was hold her tight and wish her well. He was conflicted himself. The part of him that would always love his family, the part that had hoped and even prayed everyday for Lyanna’s safe return wanted to shield her from all harm. But there was a part of him, that he did not want to acknowledge that was angry with Lyanna. That silent, ugly and vindictive part of Ned was glad that his sister understood the horror that was unleashed when she and Rhaegar absconded from their respective duties. _What would father have done?_

Morning came too quickly. Lyanna was awake by the time Ned stirred. Her eyes were dark grey pits of anger and self-pity, but she seemed filled with a restless energy. Robert had sent a great wheeled carriage, still bearing the markings of the Targaryen’s sigil on its doors as transport for Lyanna. Instead Lyanna dressed in riding leathers and rode Willam Dustin’s red courser. Her hair was held in a high braid and thin layer of dust covered her pale skin, giving her an almost ashen appearance. The carriage itself had been repurposed for transport for Howland Reed, who still clung stubbornly to life.

To the men Robert had sent, Lyanna was some great curiosity. A woman meant for the dead and now the new king’s intended. Ned heard the occasional words spoken. “Is this our queen?”, “She is not what I expected.” His icy stares quieted the whispers, but Ned wondered if his sister heard them. If she had, she did not react.

Over a month had passed since the battle at the tower, and every night at sunset, Ned would see Lyanna stare in the direction of the narrow sea.

“Do you think they have already left Westeros?” Lyanna asked while they were in the saddle. Their escort gave he and Lyanna enough space that they could talk without fear of being overheard. To their east the Kingswood stretched on like an endless sea of green. Quicker it would have been to travel through the woods along the Roseroad but a hundred battles were being fought between Lucerys Velaryon and Stannis. Men in Robert’s host had told him of the night raids that Lucerys had wrought upon Stannis’ shipyards and around the coast. Three shipyards had been burned, any loyal man the Targaryen forces captured were beheaded with their heads impaled on spikes along the coast and even some of the smallfolk were found guilty of aiding Lucerys’ efforts. A rumor endured that Rhaegar had not fallen at the Trident and instead had made a deal with the Storm God to break Stannis’ fleet before it could be launched. The efforts were admirable but Stannis’ flagship, _Fury,_ had already been completed and Baratheon patrols along the coast had resulted in several losses for the Targaryens. Lucerys Velaryon was only prolonging then inevitable.

“I don’t know. Lys is far from the fighting and a ship could travel to the city unhindered.” Ned had feared that Ser Arthur would be foolish enough to take Lyanna’s son to join the queen but there had been no mention of the Sword of the Morning thus far. _Exile is their best chance._ He knew that Ser Arthur was not the type of man to remain in the shadows for forever.

“Lys is far from everything. From here, from Winterfell

“Lys is far from everything. From here, from the capital and everyday we only move further from him. I want him back.” Lyanna said bitterly.

“And I will bring him back.” Ned said with conviction. His sister stared back at him, surprised and full of question. He bid her to hold and drew close to a flanking man-at-arms. “We will ride ahead.”

“My lord-“ The guard protested but Ned silenced him with a wave and then he and Lyanna were off. First, they began in a smooth trot but that quickly turned to a gallop. Rolling, lightly wooded hills gave away to flat grasslands and dirt roads. A plume of dust rose in a long cloud behind them, forcing Lyanna to match Ned’s pace. Ned looked over to his sister and bid his horse to run faster. As he expected, Lyanna could not ignore the challenge. Her horse surged past him, with Lyanna crouched above the seat of her saddle. Of his brothers, only Brandon could challenge Lyanna’s speed. They rode until their horses where panting and then Ned guided the beasts to a clear stream shaded by the canopy of a wide, old oak.

His heart warmed to see Lyanna’s smile as they dismounted. _There is my sister. I intend to keep her._ Lyanna dipped her hands above stream of the drinking horses and washed her face clean.

“You remain as fine a rider as ever, little sister.”

Lyanna snorted good-naturedly. “Hardly. You lean too far forward in your saddle, Ned. It throws your horse off balance and robs him of his speed.”

“Some of us were not born half-centaur.” Ned teased. Lyanna splashed him.

“Brandon taught me that. I think he regretted it because he could not best me so easily.” Lyanna smiled sadly.  She worried at the end strands of her braid. “When Rhaegar came to me, I was insistent that we leave a letter for Brandon and father. I left a note at Riverrun and sent one to Father, when he replied I thought that would be enough. Why did Brandon still go to King’s Landing?”

Ned did not know. The news of Lyanna’s abduction and Brandon’s capture had shocked him just as much. _Did Brandon act even with knowing the truth?_ Rhaegar taking Lyanna willingly still would have enraged his brother. The Prince had a wife and absconding with Lyanna was a slight on her honor as well as the honor of House Stark. “Did someone see the two of you leave? A different word could have captured Brandon’s ear before he read the letter.”

Lyanna frowned. “We met in the Riverlands after Brandon humbled Petyr. Someone could have seen us on the road but Brandon was gone, he was visiting the lords of the rivers with Lord Tully. There should have been enough time for father to send word to him. I would have never gone otherwise.”

There was a heavy feeling in Ned’s chest. “You two did not think to tell anyone else before you left?” _A lot of grief could have been saved if you did._

His sister flinched as if she could hear his thoughts. Perhaps his scorn was plain on his face. “I-“She took a breath to gather herself. “Rhaegar feared his father would find out about us. He said his father unstable but not without cunning.”

Ned felt cold anger take him and could not help but reply, “It seems instability was a trait they both shared. What did Rhaegar hope to accomplish? I think he used you Lyanna or at least planned to use your birth and father’s armies to overthrow his father when he could not do the task himself. And then when his plans failed he chose to hide until he could not do so any longer.”

Lyanna pursed her lips. “Rhaegar was not perfect. Far from it.” Ned caught her glare in the reflection of the stream. “But he was no coward. Some nights I hate him for locking me in that tower and other nights I dream that the news of his death was a lie and that he will come back to me with our son in his arms. I loved him dearly and the price for that love was greater than I could ever imagine.” She turned to him, her storm eyes looked ready to spill their rain. “Do you hate me brother?”

Ned sank to his knees beside her. Unable to lie, he admitted, “Yes. A part of me does. I cannot help but think of Brandon and father every time I look at you. Would they be angry with you or would their anger be forgotten in the joy of your return? I do not know for sure and for months I struggled with that question. What would I do if I ever saw you again? And what would I have found?” He brushed away his sister’s fresh tears and pulled her in to his arms. “Brandon and father are gone now. They are both of the past and you are my present and my future. You, Benjen, my son and your boy. Winter is coming sister and Starks must stay together.”

“Ned-“Lyanna started. Her voice was thick with emotion. He hugged her tighter.

‘I promise you that I will bring your son back in a way that will not arouse suspicion and that will keep Jon safe.”

Lyanna pulled away. “Ser Arthur would never allow Jon to be taken, not even if you could convince him that you are no threat to Jon.”

Ned nodded. “I know.” He stared at his sister and asked, “Do you want your son to risk his life to claim the throne that his father lost or do you want him to live a life of happiness, without the threat of war?” He knew he was giving his sister a difficult choice. Any highborn lady dreamed of their son or daughter climbing the social ladder and the Iron Throne was the summit, but Ned needed to understand the limits of his sister’s ambition.

Understanding bloomed in Lyanna’s eyes. “You are talking of killing Ser Arthur and abandoning Jon’s claim.” Her words were no question.

“If it comes to that then I will do what I must. Your son is my family and you have my word that I will do everything in my power to keep him safe but I cannot allow Ser Arthur to use him undermine Robert’s throne. When Jon Arryn rose Robert up to be king, I was among those who swore themselves to his cause.”

“You promised-“

“I promised that I would not tell Robert about your son and I fully intend to keep that promise. But I also swore myself to be Robert’s Warden of the North. Say what you will about Robert, but with Jon Arryn behind him this realm can finally find peace after a bloody war. Ser Arthur would use your son to threaten that peace. That cannot be allowed.” He saw Lyanna waver and he pressed. “Arthur will not win Lyanna. He is one man against a kingdom, I do not want to go to war against my nephew but the rest of the realm will have no reservations.”

She was quiet for a time and then asked, “What would become of him?’ 

“I would raise him in Winterfell alongside my family and even Howland has offered to raise Jon at Greywater Watch. The realm would know him as my bastard son, begotten on a Lyseni camp follower during the end days of the war.”

Lyanna’s brow rose and a small smile appeared on her lips. “You with a bastard Ned? Do you really think that lie would hold? Anyone in the realm who knows how honorable you are would question the notion on first glance.”

“My honor is a small sacrifice to keep my family safe. The lie will sell, I will make sure of it.” He squeezed her hand to convey his sincerity.

Lyanna plopped her bottom on the grass. It was still damp from last night’s light rains. Above them, the leaves of the great oak were laden with tiny drops of water. One fell on Lyanna’s brow and rolled to wash away the salt streak left from her tears. She hugged her knees. “I am angry with him for taking my son away but I don’t know if I can condemn him to die. Rhaegar ordered his knights to keep in the tower, he did not want me to run away and endanger his child.” There was a bitter bite to her tone. “Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell could hardly look at me but Ser Arthur never shied away. Even when I cursed him or hit him. Once I tried hiding a bread knife but Ser Arthur noticed, took it from me and did not tell his brothers. He was the one who told me the news of Rhaegar’s death. I think the others wanted to hide it for fear of what it would do to my health. That was the first time I heard them argue. I would not call him kind but he is not a bad man and Rhaegar trusted no one more.”

Ned mirrored his sister’s position. _Ser Arthur was not there when father and Brandon were burned. Would he have stopped it? Or watched like all the others?_ “Life is full of difficult decisions Lyanna. A lot of good men died in this war and more will follow if Ser Arthur is not brought to reason.”

“I want a good life for my son. How can a mother sacrifice her son’s birthright? If Rhaegar lived then Jon would be a prince and now I would turn him into a bastard.”

“Aye it is a sacrifice, but your son will need not remain that way. When he comes of age it is well within my power to give him his own castle in the gift, with own his own smallfolk and a nice parcel of land. He could marry a Mormont and have daughters as fierce as his mother. No one would question that I would want to give a better life to my bastard son.”

Lyanna pressed her face into her hands. Her fingers worried into her hair. And then she sighed. “How do you expect to find him?”

He knew he had her. “Ser Arthur is not a man who can disappear easily. Lys is the closest free city to Dorne and the most remote. I would start there. Pursue any rumors, eventually he can be found, especially if we are the only ones with the motivation to search. When I find him and Jon, I will offer terms of surrender. Let us hope that he accepts them.”

His sister nodded but she worried her lip between her teeth. “I don’t want you to face him again Ned. Arthur spared your life because I begged him to, he will not do so again.”

Ned had already considered that. He did not know how long it would take to find Arthur. The sooner would be better. _Let us find Jon before he is old enough for Arthur to fill his head with thoughts of claiming the throne or before Arthur can find allies._ “The search may be prolonged. When we return to Winterfell intend to gather my most loyal guardsmen and make them aware of the importance of finding your son and the danger of Ser Arthur.”

“Then let it be done.” Lyanna said sadly.

 

**Lyanna Stark**

She could smell King’s Landing well before the walls of the city came into view. It was a deep pungent smell. A mix of sweat, misery and shit, all made worse by the humidity from the Blackwater Bay. They entered the city through the Gate of the Gods. Above the portcullis hung detailed carvings of the Seven. Their eyes were painted, smooth stone and seemed to follow Lyanna as their host passed through the gate’s maw.

Beyond the gates was a hellscape. _The Gate of the Gods, more like the Gate of the Seven Hells._ Lyanna thought without humor. She knew of the sack from the Kingsguard and Ned had warned her of the Lannister’s army savagery, but nothing could have truly prepared her for the sight. The scars of the sack were still yet visible. Buildings still bore scorch marks and the stalls of Crofter’s Square remained broken and empty. Hard eyes stared back at Lyanna, hard eyes above faces lined with mistrust. But the city was not without its cheer. Stormland and Vale knights abounded. They were drunk with victory, red faced and many sang off tuned verses. Swords had been traded for flagons or sacks of wine. Well worked whores danced between the men. Their brightly colored dress hung low on their shoulders and did little to hide the bruises. Lannister men were rarer but they were present as well. The sight of their crimson cloaks made Lyanna sick.

Above the city three great structures loomed. To her left, on the hill of Rhaenys was the derelict structure of the Dragonpit, a symbol of the state of the House that had commissioned it built. To her right loomed the Great Sept of Baelor, its white marble and seven crystal towers glowed in the sunlight. Even from her far off distance, Lyanna could see hundreds upon hundreds gathering at the sept’s grounds. _Only the Great Sept provided refuge from the savagery of the sack._

Her appearance attracted little attention. Mud clung thickly to her boots, her leathers were covered in dust and her hair was done in a simple braid. _Hardly the look of a presumptive Queen._ When her father was alive, Lyanna was dressed in the finest dresses of a southern style whenever Robert and Ned visited Winterfell. Today she would have preferred steel over silk or leather. Steel was firm and strong where she felt soft and weak. Lyanna remembered when she last wore steel. The day she had met a prince.

Sooner than she would have liked the iron gate of the Red Keep opened before them. Men lined the iron ramparts and above the great drum towers flew the golden stag banners of House Baratheon.

The courtyard was mostly empty. “Where are the men?” Ned asked the stable hand who took their horses.

“In the Great Hall m’lord.” The stable hand replied. Ned swore and looked to Lyanna. She shared his grimace. They had hoped for a private audience, but it now seemed that their hopes were dashed.

Lyanna slid from her saddle and took her brother’s arm. “I will be fine Ned.” She reassured. Ned’s lips pursed but he nodded. Together they walked to the Great Hall. Two tall guards with the surcoats emblazoned by the falcon of the Vale of Arryn opened the great bronze and oak doors of the throne room. A long red carpet stretched from the doorway to the base of the throne. More than two hundred lords, ladies and their retainers were present though the room itself was less than a quarter full. A cavernous ceiling rose more than a hundred feet above and light spilled from the high, narrow windows along the eastern and western walls.

Their walk seemed an almost endless journey, made worse as Lyanna could feel every one of the hundreds of eyes upon her. She breathed deeply to calm her raging heart. _Sell the lie. Sell the lie. Sell the lie._  She repeated. Lyanna tried to keep her gaze straight forward but unseeing. Her efforts failed. Black iron of a thousand twisted swords, melted into a massive monstrosity of seat only reminded Lyanna of her brother and father. _They died before this seat._ For months that knowledge had haunted her. Lyanna had thought herself prepared but then the thought, _I might be standing where father burned,_ her feet stopped moving.

“Lyanna?” Ned whispered. Her brother’s kind voice lent her strength. _I am a Stark of Winterfell._ Lyanna reminded herself and then they were moving again.

At the base of the throne were two tall figures in white armor. They could not be more different. The older man was ashen, his black hair was spotted with grey and sad blue eyes stared back at her. _Ser Barristan Selmy._ Lyanna felt her anger stir at the sight of the other man. He could have only been a year or so older than her. Handsome and golden with the lion of House Lannister emblazoned on his chest plate. Haughty green eyes stared back at her and Lyanna could not help but glare in return. _The Kingslayer. He should be in chains._

Heavy booted footsteps descending the narrow steps of the throne drew Lyanna’s attention. Even with his arm held in a sling, Robert Baratheon looked every inch a warrior. He was six and half feet tall, with a thick neck, powerful shoulders and a flat stomach. A short sleeved, golden tunic showcased his thickly corded arms and a crown of gold and iron, wrought in the shape of stag horns sat on his dark head. “Lyanna.” His voice echoed as loud as thunder, full of strength, vigor and disbelief. She and Ned moved to kneel but Robert waved them off. “There is no need.”

Words had become stuck in Lyanna’s throat and she was grateful that Ned took the initiative to speak. “Your Grace, we have returned and would have preferred a private audience. Lyanna has been through much in the past months.” There was little warmth in Ned’s voice.

Robert’s bearded jaw shifted at her brother’s tone and she saw his eyes narrow. _The wounds of their argument are still fresh. If I had died at that tower, Ned would have not returned here._

“Lady Lyanna, the realm is glad to see you well.”  Jon Arryn said. The old Lord, and now Hand of the King, was to the right of Robert. A bright silver clasp in the shape of a clasp shone above his breast. Lord Arryn’s eyes were a kind blue and a sincere smile was on his face.

“Thank you, my lord, you are most kind.” Lyanna said politely. She used the opportunity to scan the room. Some of the lords she recognized from the tourney at Harrenhal, which now seemed a lifetime ago, others needed no introduction. There was Lord Mace Tyrell, handsome but growing portly. Beside him was Paxter Redwyne, who upon surrendering to her brother at Storm’s End, lent a portion of his fleet to Stannis for the impending battle at Dragonstone. Amongst the Vale Lords, Lyanna recognized Lord Royce, as tall as Robert at the very least with a grey beard and a bushy brow, Lord Horton Redfort, shorter than she with eyes that darted around the room and the Corbray Brothers. Lyonel Corbray, the eldest, who had shared a flagon with Brandon at Harrenhal and thin and handsome Lyn Corbray. At the waist of the lordling was the sword that slew Ser Lewyn Martell, elegant in its sheath of wood as red as blood. Then her eyes found the Lannisters.

Tywin Lannister was tall, thin and broad shoulder. The only hair on his head and face besides his brows were great, golden side-whiskers. Calculating green eyes stared back at her, the flecks of gold in them shined with the streaming sunlight. His mouth was in a tight line as if the very sight of Lyanna displeased him. A glance to his right told Lyanna why.

The Lannister’s had been the only paramount family not present at the tourney at Harrenhal. Rhaegar had told her it was due a dispute between his father and Lord Tywin. As such, Lyanna had never seen Cersei Lannister in the flesh. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, so much so that Lyanna had difficulty drawing her eyes away from the heiress. Her was a golden waterfall that fell to the mid of her back. Cersei’s green eyes were brighter than her father’s but where Tywin’s eyes were hard and calculating, Cersei’s eyes were haughty emeralds. Slender and nubile the woman was, a goddess in the flesh. She was clad in a red and white flowing dress that left her neck and shoulders bare. _If anyone should wonder what a queen should look like, they only need to point to her._

“My Lady.” The king stopped five feet from her and Ned. His blue eyes scanned her body. _He is checking for wounds._ Lyanna knew the story. The entire realm had been told the tale of her abduction. Of how Rhaegar had stolen her away, locked her in a tower and raped her for months. Robert the warrior king, the hero of that story. _What would he do if I told him the truth? That I spread my legs willingly and often begged for it._ Lyanna did not dare take the risk.

She could see the question on Robert’s lips, but the king looked as if he was struggling to voice his words. Hesitation was in his eyes, as if he needed to know the answer but did not know if he was prepared for its truth. “What did _he_ do to you?” The king did not need to shout, his voice had a way of carrying across the room. There was a resulting murmur and the sound of shifting feet.

Ned’s stern voice responded quickly. “Robert, this not the time nor place. Lyanna has not even had the chance to rest or change. Have some courtesy.” Her brother’s anger had to be up for him to speak to the king so forcefully. Lyanna did not think it was possible for her to love her brother more, right then and there.

She squeezed Ned’s arm. “No Ned. They should hear.” Lyanna had practiced the words she would say on the journey to the capital, but they did not come easy. The stares directed her way had been numerous ever since she left the tower. Everyone wanted to hear the account of what Rhaegar did or did not do to her, straight from her lips. Only Ned’s icy glare and constant presence at her side kept the questions at bay.

 _It began at Harrenhal._ “It started at Harrenhal.” She tried staring at Robert’s eyes but found that too intense and instead stared at his feet.

“When he crowned you?” Robert asked.

Lyanna shook her head. “Before that. I was the mystery knight in the tourney, the Knight of the Laughing Tree.” She spoke loud enough the lords in the back of the galley could hear her. There was little strain to her voice, the Targaryens had built the hall so that voices spoken near the throne would travel far. Rhaegar had told her that. “The squires I defeated had harassed my father’s bannerman on the road to the tourney. I did not know the mad king would take offence. And I was scared when Aerys ordered men to search for me. Prince Rhaegar was the one who found me, and he swore my secret was safe with him.” She swallowed thickly. _Sell the lie._ “Rh- The prince, helped me hide but he took an interest after that. I thought it was a harmless friendship. He asked how I learned to ride so well and about the North and Winterfell, my brothers and my father. And even you.”

“And then he crowned you.” Robert’s jaw shifted.

Lyanna nodded. “And then he crowned me.” She breathed deep. “Prince Rhaegar apologized after. He said that he had not meant to cause offence. “Robert scoffed. “It was then he mentioned the pact of Ice and Fire.”

“What is the Pact of Ice and Fire?” Robert questioned.

“Y-your grace, if I may?” The Grand Maester stuttered. He was an old man, bent with a long grey beard that was turning white that ran down to his chest and a spotted bald head. His robes were red velvet with gold fastenings. Beneath the spotted snow of his beard was a Maester chain of many metals, adorned with several gemstones. “The pact of ice and fire was a marriage contract negotiated between Queen Rhaenyra’s forces and the Starks during the Dance of Dragons. In exchange for the Starks’ support in the war, Lord Cregan Stark was promised a Targaryen princess as a bride.”

“It was never fulfilled.” Lyanna said before the old man could drone on longer.

“That is why he kidnapped you, for a century year old marriage contract? “Robert growled.

“It was not just a marriage contract. Not for him. It was part of a prophecy.” The best lies were rooted in truth, that Lyanna knew. Yet each word was accompanied by a tightening in her chest. She remembered her first sight of Rhaegar. Tall, graceful and beautiful but it was his sad eyes that captivated her. That sadness was in the songs he played for her, a beautiful melancholy so deep that it brought her to tears. Few would believe that man capable of violating her. For her son’s safety she needed she needed to destroy that image. “I did not know it at first, but it was an obsession of his. He forced me to marry him on the Isle of Faces with his Kingsguard as witness. And then he raped me.” There was a series of shocked gasps. Half the realm had risen for her valiant prince, many were here in this room. And now she was turning his memory to one of a monster. Lyanna tried to blink away her tears but they were sudden and heavy. _For my son._ “Rhaegar needed a third child for his prophecy. The dragon has three heads, he would say.”

Robert swallowed. “Was there a child?” This time he whispered.

“Yes.” Lyanna answered without hesitation. “A girl, born twisted and monstrous. She had no eyes and had claws instead of fingers, a tiny tail and wings on her back. Never did she breathe.”

“I found Lyanna in a tower that over looked the Prince’s Pass in Dorne. Rhaegar had charged his three Kingsguard to defend his unborn child while he rode out to meet our host in battle. There was a fight, Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent were killed as were my men. Ser Arthur would have killed me if Lyanna had not begged him to spare my life.” Ned spoke. The murmurs increased. _“The Sword of the Morning.”_ Lyanna heard. _“He lives.”_

“Does Ser Arthur Dayne intend to support Viserys?” Jon Arryn questioned. Lyanna hoped not. Her son needed to be as far away from Dragonstone as possible.

“I cannot say. Only that he will not support Robert.” Ned admitted.

“Bah.” Robert spat. “He supported a prince as mad as his fire obsessed father and I am the enemy? I told you Ned, every single one of them is either mad or one dream away from being so.” Robert stepped closer. “Lyanna.” She lifted her eyes to meet his. “I swear to you that I will kill every Targaryen I get my hands on until they are as dead as their dragons. What Rhaegar did to you will be avenged.”

“No.” Lyanna said suddenly. “There has already been enough blood spilt in my name. Aerys is dead, Rhaegar is dead. My father and brother have been avenged but the Queen and her son had nothing to do with any of this. Viserys is just a boy, his murder would not bring me peace.”

Robert was shocked. His brow furrowed. “And when Viserys grows into another Aerys? Should I wait till then? They burned your father in this very room while your brother watched. How can you ask me to spare them when they would give none of us the same mercy?”

“I ask you to be a king who knows when to stay his sword and extend mercy.” She let her words hang in the air. Her blood felt hot and Lyanna threw caution to the wind. “Do you think Elia and her children deserved to die? Was her little princess and infant prince so terrifying to the _Demon of the Trident_ that the Lion of the Rock was needed to do the grisly work of removing them for him?” There was a resounding gasp but Lyanna only had eyes for Tywin Lannister, the Lion of the Rock stared back without a flinch.

“Enough of this nonsense. We argue over the past and act as if the dragonspawn is innocent. This is a war I’m fighting. I do not expect you to understand.” Robert shouted. It was the voice of a field commander, strong enough that the great lords in attendance flinched. Lyanna did not.

“I understand war plenty enough. I understand that there comes a time where all wars need to end- “

“Ending the Targaryen line forever will do just that.” Robert snapped. _He remains unconvinced._ Lyanna realized.

She sighed. “Then I ask you, what would you have done if I came here with Rhaegar’s child in my arms? Would you rip the girl from my breasts and kill her yourself or would have the Lannister’s send their dogs and smile afterwards?” She waited for answer. Robert’s eyes were hard but the king remained silent. “Do what you will but have no illusions, you do not have my approval and it is not to avenge my name or my honor.” And then she and Ned turned and left the throne room.

 

**Eddard Stark**

Ned could not help but smile every time he looked at his sister. Politically her outburst was far from the smartest decision. Lord Tywin Lannister was one of the most power men in the realm, but it felt more than a small victory to see Lord Lannister brought low in view of so many great lords. Ned did not fear Tywin Lannister but he was aware of the man’s pride. As such Ned assigned five guards to be with Lyanna at all times.

They were remnants of his own host, those who had not yet returned to the North. In total there were just under two hundred Northmen in King’s Landing. The fiercest amongst them was the Greatjon Umber. He was a year younger than Ned, though he stood a head and shoulder above him. Greatjon was one of the fiercest warriors that Ned ever seen and best of all he had the effect of scaring away southern lords who proved too inquisitive for Lyanna’s taste. Ned reserved two guards for himself, landed knights from White Harbor who were sworn to House Manderly.

 _The day we leave this city could not come sooner._ Ned thought as he ascended the spiraling staircase that led to his and Lyanna’s adjoining chambers. They were adjacent to the barracks and armory on the north wall of the Red Keep, far away from Maegor’s Holdfast. Jon Arryn had tried to give them apartments in the square fortress as fitting for their station but Lyanna had flatly refused. _She can hardly bear the sight of where Elia and her children were murdered._ Their resulting apartments were smaller and less ornate but also had a great view of the Blackwater Bay.

He had not intended to stay in the city for any longer than what was necessary. Normally Ned would have chartered a ship to reach White Harbor and the North much faster but Lucerys’ presence on Dragonstone largely prevented any ships from or leaving the city. Only the boldest of captains would set sail and Ned did not want to risk putting his sister in danger nor did he want to wait for Stannis’ growing fleet to break the blockade.

Riding up the Kingsroad was a harder and much longer journey than one by ship. Ned had spent the entirety of their second day preparing for their journey North. He had procured horses, bought enough feed and other supplies, had sent letters to houses adjacent to the Kingsroad for where they might stay and sent one to his brother In Winterfell to prepare a second guard for once they passed the Neck. The thought of sending a letter to his wife in Riverrun had crossed his mind but Ned was unsure if Catelyn had already begun her journey North.

The thought of his pretty wife made him feel strange. They had made a son together but scarcely knew each other. Ned remembered her look of disappointment when she first laid eyes upon him. It was brief, but her eyes said, _He is no Brandon._ His brother was taller, more handsome and always seemed to know what to say. Ned did not possess such skill and he could think of no words that would have helped. Instead Ned focused on the war to come.

Catelyn and his newborn son were still on his mind when he ascended the last flight of steps and nearly ran into Jon Arryn. “Jon?”

His adopted father smiled wide, flashing missing teeth. “Ned, I was hoping to speak to both you and your sister, but I don’t believe that Lady Lyanna is in her chambers.”

Ned shook his head. “Lyanna is in the city. She is not one to stay cooped in her room and I thought it would be best for her to stay far away from the court. Not that she minds it in the least.”

“Aye, your sister has spirit rarely seen. That was quite the showing in the throne room.” Jon Arryn rarely raised his voice in ire. Nor did he truly glare or show readily visible cues of anger but over a decade in the Eyrie had allowed Ned to see the subtle cues of when Jon was annoyed.

“Lyanna was not wrong. What was done to Elia Martell and her children was heinous and should have been punished. If Robert cannot understand that-“

Jon held up a hand. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in your chambers.”

Ned nodded, and the two men filed into the room. His guards took up their stations outside the door. He and Lyanna’s bedchambers were connected by an adjoining common room that had four large windows with a northern facing view of the Blackwater Bay. The floors were hard stone, but clean woolen rugs had been laid on the floor. An oaken table dominated the center of the room with a flagon of wine and a bowl of fruit on its surface. On the wall of Lyanna’s bedchamber hung a detailed tapestry of the Field of Fire. The great dragon, Balerion, dove releasing black and red hellfire while Aegon’s sister-wives circled the battlefield on the back of their dragons. Men screamed, burned and died in brushes of red, orange and black.

“Your sister’s words were not absent of wisdom. Though I fear there were a thousand better places and times that she could have said them. Tywin Lannister is the last man we want to offend.”

Ned scoffed. “I could care less about Tywin Lannister. Lyanna voiced my thoughts as well. The killing of children would make us no better than Aerys Targaryen.” _Surely can Robert can see that._

Jon frowned. “I know your disdain for the man-“

“Disdain? He’s grasping, dangerous, and thinks the bodies of women and children can buy loyalty.”

“He is also rich, powerful and represents stability. Tywin Lannister ruled Westeros as Hand of the King for twenty years. With his support we can ensure that this war is well and truly over.”

Ned drummed his fingers on the table. “Tywin killed the heir to the Iron Throne, I hardly think he can turn and support a Targaryen restoration.”

Jon laughed humorlessly. “Varys tells us that Aerys disinherited Rhaegar’s children in favor of Viserys but is no matter. I see your point Ned. The death of Elia Martell and her children is regretful and no doubt it will not win us any Dornish support, but should Stannis fail to capture Viserys then we will need Tywin Lannister’s loyalty. The entire reach, however sparingly, fought to support the Targaryens. Many houses in the Riverlands defied Hoster Tully and paid the price. No doubt if Viserys were to land in ten or fifteen years they might decide to roll the die again. Finally, there is Dorne. Doran Martell may be a man of reason, but they say his brother is half mad at the best of times. Varys tells us that Oberyn remains in the free cities, but his exile is anything but benign.”

Ned had only met this Oberyn Martell only briefly at the tourney at Harrenhal, but he sympathized the Prince’s plight. When the bodies of Elia and her children were laid before Robert, all he could think of was that could have been Lyanna’s fate. _Would Robert have smiled at her body as well? Could he have done the deed himself?_ “I will not ask my sister to apologize to Tywin Lannister. He is a lord, he should know criticism often accompanies the power to make your own decisions.”

“Very well that is about the best I could expect.” Jon chuckled. He reached for the flagon and poured two glasses before sliding one over to Ned. After a sip of his beverage Jon said, “So as long as Lady Lyanna does not have another outburst I think we can avoid an incident.”

“There will not be an opportunity for another. I mean for my sister and myself to return to the North as soon as possible.” _Starks do not fare well south of the Neck._

“I pray I can convince you to reconsider.” Ned’s brow rose in question, Jon continued. “Robert’s crown is not yet secured. Until the supporters of Viserys lay down their swords then Robert will not be coronated. Lords have been steadily traveling to King’s Landing in expectation of paying their fealty and there is to be a council of the greatest among us that will formally recognize Robert’s right to the throne but there is always the chance that it can fall apart in however many months it takes for Stannis to win Dragonstone. Your showed support would do well for the stability of the realm.”

Ned grumbled. “Unlike the Lannisters, I paid for the rebellion with my blood and the blood of my fellow Northmen. Does that not count for anything?”

“It does, certainly. But now is a time to show them all that we can transition from war to peace. Such a public display by your sister… it could breed doubt. And I doubt Robert would want his betrothed to travel so far.”

Ned stared at his adopted father in disbelief. “I thought that ship had sailed.”

“Lyanna has no desire to be queen?” Jon questioned.

“She wants to return to Winterfell. I would not force her into anything else.”

Jon smiled sadly. “If your father were still alive he would see her wed. Not many men would turn away from the chance of their daughter becoming queen, nor their sister.”

 _If father was still alive would he press Lyanna’s son’s claim or would he hide the boy and wait for Baratheon grandchildren._ “I want what is best for Lyanna.” _I want peace._

“I am ashamed to admit that I feared the strife your sister’s appearance would bring. What Rhaegar did to her is reprehensible and if there had been a living child as a result…” Jon trailed off, but his blue eyes contained an unspoken question.

Ned swallowed. “The girl is dead. Her bones are with Ser Oswell, Ser Gerold and my friends.”

Jon crossed his fingers and leaned closer. “There is no shame in a mother’s mercy Ned. Plenty of mothers have been known to protect their ill-born children. I know you are loyal to your sister but a girl or a _boy_ could give those who stand opposed to Robert all they would need to foster another rebellion. What happened to Elia Martell and her children will not be repeated, that I can assure but for the good of the realm-“

“I told you the child is dead. There is no threat to Robert’s crown.” The words left a bitter taste in Ned’s mouth. _Damn you Ser Arthur._

Jon nodded. His mouth lips set in a smooth line. “Robert still wants your sister to be his queen.”

“Even after what Rhaegar did to her?” _Sell the lie._

“Is that so surprising? Robert may be stubborn, but he is no fool. We all had an idea of what your sister might have endured.”

It was surprising. Ned knew his friend had his many vices. Wine and beautiful women were the greatest amongst them. The sweeter the drink and the more beautiful the woman, the more interested Robert became. The second the latter proved troublesome, Robert had a tendency to lose interest. _Lyanna is as willful as she is beautiful. Robert does not know her._ He swallowed. “There is something more, Lyanna’s pregnancy left her weak and near death. It is a miracle that she is alive and the maester at Nightsong says that Lyanna will likely never bear another child.”

Jon seemed taken back. “I did not know.” He sighed. “Your sister is a rare soul to advocate mercy when such has been taken from her.”

Ned nodded but did not reply. Jon continued, “Robert will be pushed even further from peace when he hears this. If you and Lady Lyanna are truly committed to seeing a peaceful resolution to this war then I implore you stay, at the very least until Robert is coronated. Between the three of us I believe that we can convince Robert to stay his sword when the time comes.”

Ned rubbed his temples. There was so much to balance. His nephew in Dorne or Essos, his promise to his sister, his wife and newborn son, the North and now the last Targaryens. “What do you have in mind?”

“Prince Viserys’ best chance at a long life is the Wall. The vows of the Night’s Watch will invalidate his claim and keep him safe.”

“And the queen?” Ned asked.

Jon smiled sadly. “Queen Rhaella is much more difficult of a problem.”

“The faith?”

Jon shook his head. “If she was anyone else then that would be a viable option. Rhaella has been queen for over twenty years. We cannot ignore the high likelihood that someone would seek to use her as a figurehead for another rebellion.”

“Then she is to be condemned to die?”

“That is not what I had in mind. I have no qualms against the queen; by all indications she has suffered by the hands of Aerys as much as any of us but in the south, she would be a latent threat for many years.”

Surprise flashed across Ned’s face. “You would send her North? To where, Winterfell?”

Jon nodded. “Aye where else is there a kingdom so utterly without cause for a rebellion? Winterfell is in the heart of a land that utterly despises the Targaryens and yet there is nowhere else that the queen would be safer.” Jon patted Ned’s shoulder. “You’ve grown into a good man. Together we can end this war with minimal bloodshed.”

“Do you truly believe you can convince Robert?” Lyanna asked that night in their shared chambers. She was in her sleeping dress, with knees tucked close to her chest while she sat on the couch.

“If there is anyone in this world that Robert will listen to then it is Jon Arryn, that is why he is hand.” Ned responded.

“And if the queen should stay in Winterfell then what is to happen with my son?”

Ned grimaced. “I have not entirely agreed to that. There might be a place in the Vale that is better served-“

Lyanna shook her head. “No Jon is right; Winterfell is the best place for the queen. She will be safest in our home. I owe Rhaegar that much at the very least. However, you cannot harbor her grandson in the same castle without drawing suspicion.”

“Howland has already agreed to take him in at Greywater Watch.”

“But would it not be better for my son to remain in Essos?”

“I thought you would want him in the North?”

Lyanna sighed. “You saw Robert’s face when he learned I had Rhaegar’s child. If he learned that my son was not only alive but on this continent, I fear nothing could stop him.”

“I will protect you both.” Ned promised.

“But if we were away from Westeros entirely who would even know to look for us? Anonymity could keep my son; far more than your relationship with Robert or you armies, Ned. Ser Arthur could even-“

“Do not be a fool Lyanna. Ser Arthur pledged to sit your son on the throne. He will discard anonymity as soon it proves useful. He seeks to bring war when your son comes of age and make the peace we seek to negotiate meaningless. Your boy is my nephew and I do everything in my power to see him safe but I cannot knowingly allow for treason.”

“Even more so than we are doing already.” Lyanna muttered. She padded way to her bedchamber before Ned could answer. 

And so, they remained in King’s Landing. In that time Ned witnessed Robert in all his glory. Despite Lyanna’s spirited outburst, Robert’s charm and popularity had scarcely been diminished. The Great Hall and Throne Room were filled by Robert’s booming laughter and by the laughter of all those around him. From great lords to landed knights, all men jostled for the king’s favor. Robert drank with them, sang bawdy ballads with them and exchanged accounts of valor in the recent war; even those who had chosen to remain loyal to the mad king were welcome by Robert’s side once their knee had been bent and their fealty offered.

Such a sight filled Ned with conflict. It reminded Ned of the boisterous brother who had been his greatest friend in the Vale. The boy who could charm any kitchen maid, married or otherwise. The boy who at thirteen, could defeat knights in a melee. And also, the man who proclaimed, _I see no babes only dragonspawn._ Ned’s jaw clenched.

Lyanna outright avoided the court as much as possible. Together they broke their fast in their chambers before his sister departed into the city. She tried to hide her guilt but the reality and devastation of the sack seemed to be an even harsher reminder of the consequences of her actions.

Ned for his part tried to avoid Robert but their foster father intervened. And so, three weeks after he spoke with Jon, Ned found himself in the small council chamber alone with Robert. They both eyed one another, neither knowing which words to speak. Robert sat at the king’s customary place at the head of the long, ornate oaken table while Ned stood at the doorway the page had just exited. It was a clever trick by Jon to get Ned here, if not an obvious one that Ned should have foreseen. _A discussion of the honor guard to see the prince to the Night’s Watch. I should have known it was too early to hold such talks when the war has not yet been won._ Ned scoffed.

After a full minute of awkward staring Robert said, “I never thought that when Lyanna returned she would decry me as a monster. After the war I fought in her name?”

Ned shifted. He knew his words needed to be chosen carefully. “Lyanna has a weakness for children. She would never seek vengeance against those too young to know otherwise.”

“Damn you both and Jon Arryn. I guarantee no matter what mercy we give them, someday they will try to take back what they think belongs to them.” Robert shook his head but when he looked at Ned again he was smiling. “But what a fight it will be.”

Ned could not help but smile. “So, you will let the children live?”

Robert made a dismissive gesture. “Bah, if it was anyone other than your sister that pulled that stunt… By the gods Ned, you told me she had a temper but I thought she’d smite me right then and there. And did you see Tywin Lannister, I’d pay all the coin Aerys left us to see his expression again.” The king laughed bodily.

“I think Jon would disagree with you.”

Robert shrugged. “Just as well. But any woman who can stare down Tywin Lannister would give a man fierce sons. Lyanna will make a fine queen.”

Ned’s expression fell. “Robert, did Jon not tell you? Lyanna cannot bear-“

“Do not speak those words Ned.” Robert interrupted. “Why would the gods bring her back to me if they did not intend us wed? The maesters are wrong. Rhaegar may have taken your sister’s innocence but I refuse to believe that your sister will only birth his monster.”

 _You stubborn fool._ Ned thought but he felt little malice. “Lyanna is a Stark of Winterfell.” _She belongs in the North._ “She should return home.”

“Lyanna belongs with me. She is the queen this realm deserves. Do you see your sister? Every day she walks in the city, sits amongst the people and the children instead of blabbing with these twits at court… I never asked for this Ned. Jon convinced me to put my claim forth but even now I know I’ll be a shit king.”

“It looks like you have been doing well so far.” Ned said dryly.

“The talking is easy; the drinking is easier but everything else… by the gods Ned, everyone I talk to wants some position, some favor or some reward. Every decision I make affects this kingdom for years to come and yet I have no idea if I am making the right choices. At least your sister actually cares for the smallfolk, most of these fuckers do not even pretend. Without her at my side I fear the type of man I would become, stuck here in this viper pit.”

“Have you spoken to my sister?” Ned’s brow rose.

Robert had the grace to look abashed. “I think she is avoiding me. I have not seen her at even one meal.”

Ned breathed deep. “I will be honest with you Robert, the prospect of being queen has little appeal for Lyanna. She has been through much and would like to rest more than anything.” _With her son._

“There is no hope then? Even if I spare Viserys and his pregnant mother?” The confusion was plain on Ned’s face, Robert continued. “Aerys raped his sister-wife after he burnt his hand and right before he sent her to Dragonstone. The spider tells us that the action bore fruit.” There was more than a slight bitterness to the king’s tone.

“Does this change anything?” Ned asked.

“It changes everything.” Robert leaned back in his seat. “What kind of king would I be if I ordered the death of a pregnant queen? If there is any sense in the world then the child will be stillborn like all her others.”

“If not?” Ned chanced.

Robert’s lips set into a thin line. “If it is a boy then he can follow his brother to the wall. Jon says if it is a girl then it is best to marry her to my heir.”

Ned nodded. “Then talk to Lyanna yourself Robert. Convince her what good she can as your queen but I warn you, I will not force her to concede to anything that she does not wish.”

Robert agreed.

After their conversation the days in King’s Landing seemed to pass much quicker. Their war council was reformed to discuss Stannis’ victories along the Storm coast and the Blackwater. Robert sat at the helm with Jon Arryn to his right and Ned to his left. Hoster Tully who arrived at the capital a month after Ned sat next to Jon Arryn. Completing the war room was the only ‘man’ who had not fought in the rebellion. Varys, or as he was commonly referred to, The Spider, was a plump, bald-headed eunuch. Ned received a whiff of perfume every time the spymaster moved and when they shook hands, powder was left on his hands. Despite his queer appearance, Varys was often the one who brought the greatest revelations to their council.

“Baelon Velaryon was slain when Stannis took Sharp Point and House Bar Emmon has yielded though all their ships have either been sunk or are now part of the garrison at Dragonstone. “ said Jon Arryn.

“His brother correct?” asked Hoster. With the Lord of the Rivers and Trident came the news that Catelyn had arrived at Winterfell safely. 

“Aye, and he lost a son at the Trident and another during the sack and a nephew died in the Kingswood.” Ned answered.

“This war has extracted a heavy toll from us all.” Jon Arryn said sagely, no doubt thinking of the two nephews he had lost during the war.

“Then the fool should learn to yield.” Robert growled. “Has my offer of mercy not reached him?” The king directed his question to the spider.

“Quite the opposite your grace.” The spider’s tone was high and effeminate. From his voluminous silken sleeve, the eunuch produced a letter adorned with the sea-green seal of House Velaryon.

“Read it.” Robert ordered. He drew a sip from his wine glass.

Varys eyes darted over words. His eyes widened. “Are you sure my lord?” he asked warily.

“Go on.” Robert responded but he along with all the other lords leaned forward in their seats.

Varys cleared his throat. “To the traitors Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark and all those in witness, I, Lucerys Velaryon proclaimed Hand of the King by Queen Rhaella Targaryen in service to his grace, Prince Viserys of House Targaryen, third of his name demand that the rebel fleet surrenders, King’s Landing and the Iron Throne vacated, the treasury restored to its original condition and oaths of fealty and protection are afforded when King Viserys returns to reclaim his birthright. Failure to do so will be considered an act of treason punishable by death.”

Robert laughed. “Is the man mad? My brother has beaten him in every major battle and will storm his castle and take his head.”

“Perhaps he hopes his pyromancers will win him the war if his ships do not? Or maybe their search for dragon eggs will turn fruitful?” Hoster offered jokingly.

“The last is a rumor I hope.” Jon Arryn smiled.

“There is more my lords.” Varys said in a quiet tone. Ned could see the eunuch’s hesitation. They bid him to continue. “For payment of your previous treasons and proof of your loyalty, we demand the heads of the false knight Jaime Lannister, who slew his king in an unjust and cowardly manner, Tywin Lannister who the son must have learned his treachery from. The Grandmaester Pycelle is to be sent to Dragonstone for execution. The lying whore who calls herself Lyanna Stark is to be whipped for the lies she has spread concerning the honorable Prince Rhaegar-“

Robert’s fist slammed into the table before Varys could continue. Varys jumped and released a girlish shriek. “Damn that snake.”

“Is there more to the letter?” Ned asked, ignoring his friend. It was clear Lord Lucerys was seeking to stir their anger.

“If my demands seem unreasonable then consider them threats and promises. House Velaryon has been sworn to House Targaryen for longer than the Seven Kingdoms have existed and I do not intend to abandon our pact of fealty. I am of the Blood of Old Valyria as is my king and I will see him on the throne. Signed “The Old, the True, the Brave.”

“His house words.” Jon said as he stroked his whiskers.

“They will be pretty enough for his funeral sermon.” Robert promised. The king’s anger was visible as the veins in his muscular neck swelled beneath the skin.

“Lucerys won his station in the war of the Ninepenny Kings. Aerys appointed him to his office, I am not surprised the man will remain loyal to the end.” Ned answered. _Would that loyalty extend to Lyanna’s son?_ Ned discarded the thought. He would not let it come to that.

“Is there a way Lucerys can be removed from power before lives are lost in a siege?” Hoster asked.

“By removed from power I assume you mean killed.” Varys said. He sighed dramatically. “I am afraid lives will have to be lost. Lucerys surrounds himself with men hailing from Driftmark. They are not likely to turn even for a lordship; the risk is too great. “

“Are there no signs of a mutiny? Surely the men most know their odds of victory are nonexistent.” Jon pressed.

“Lucerys has been resourceful or paranoid enough to either imprison or execute any man who shows signs of being disloyal.” Varys answered.

“What of the queen and Viserys?” Robert asked. Ned stared at his friend with hard eyes but Robert did not look his way.

“The queen frequently walks walls and ramparts of Dragonstone to give courage to the men but she and the prince are always accompanied by Ser Willem Darry and a guard that was personally chosen by him. If anything were to happen to Queen Rhaella, Lucerys has promised that any conspirers would be ripped apart before Stannis can land. You should know my lords, Lord Lucerys has a great affection for Queen Rhaella. He will never stop fighting for her or her children so as long as he should live.”

“And how would you know that spider?” Hoster Tully questioned with narrowed eyes.

Varys bowed deeply. “With respect my lord, my profession is to learn the deepest secrets of all those I can and my methods would be much less effective if my art was revealed.” The eunuch’s dark eyes seemed to linger upon Ned a moment longer than the others. Ned glared back.

Each day they met to discuss new developments of the war at the mouth of the Blackwater.  Lucerys himself had sailed against Stannis to break the host gathering at Massey’s Hook. Stannis smashed much of the Velaryon fleet and sent the rest fleeing. Lucerys’ nephew Monford Velaryon yielded Castle Driftmark without issue and the remainder of the Targaryen fleet reduced from more than a hundred ships at the start of the war to a bit more than a dozen retreated to Dragonstone. And then, some nine months after Ned’s battle at the Tower of Joy came the news.

“They say it was the biggest storm in living memory. Their fleet shattered at anchor and now Stannis can sail to the Island unopposed.” Robert’s grin was wide. “And here I thought my brother would win more glory, I bet they will open their gates without a fight.”

“There is more news your grace, the Queen delivered a baby girl during the storm. They call her Daenerys Stormborn.” Varys added.

“Is she healthy?” Jon Arryn asked. They were all hastily dressed as the raven had come in the dead of the night.

“So, they say. The birth was difficult for the queen and her and her children remain confined in the Sea Dragon Tower beneath the Maester’s chambers.” Varys answered.

“Stannis suffered a few losses from the storm but his fleet remains largely intact. He has positioned his fleet to intercept any ships that should choose to flee the flee. They are broken.” Jon smiled a clapped Robert and Hoster’s shoulders.

Ned did not share their glee. “Is there word of Lucerys?”

**Davos**

The Onion Knight clutched his bag of finger bones that hung from a string around his neck for what must have been the hundredth time that day. The severed ends of the first joints on his left hand still throbbed with a phantom pain. He could still remember the white-hot knife and how his wrists ached in the shackles needed to keep him still. It had been months since Stannis had ordered the joints removed in recompense for Davos’ past crimes and months since Stannis lifted Davos from a common smuggler to a landed knight. _I would make the trade a hundred times if given the choice._

Davos stood at the prow of his _Black Betha_ and thanked his bones for the good fortune. There had been fear that the loyalist forces would commit to a final, desperate siege and yet when the sight of the bleak isle came into view, only the scattered hulks of broken Targaryen warships stood to oppose them. Atop the isle, on the face of the smoking Dragonmont stood the bleak fortress of Dragonstone. Above its wall flew the rainbow peace banner, a queer symbol amongst the snarling stone dragons that stood astride and formed the three curtain walls of the fortress. The belligerent Lucerys Velaryon, who was so steadfast in his pride and dedication to House Targaryen had fled with the last of the Targaryen fleet’s flagships to the lands of the east, fully abandoning his queen and the two young royals. _May the wind fill his sails, Lord Stannis would have spared him no mercy._

The ship beneath him glided smoothly under the power of its oars to the dock, stone crunched under Davos’ boot as he stepped upon the quay. The coast was filled by the sounds of waves hitting the coast, boots stamping upon stone, oarsmen shouting as they pulled their oars inward and the bellow of soldiers and their commanders as they called to form ranks.

Lord Stannis had brought several thousand men with him to assault Dragonstone. The siege was never feared to be long but a bloody one was expected. The walls of the fortress were reportedly harder than diamond, the gates made of the near unbreakable dragon stone and even the shape of the fortress made laying hooks and ladders difficult as the stone was smooth, shaped by fire and sorcery to be without gaps and footholds.

“Davos, Lord Stannis request your presence in the van.” The knight rode away before Davos could reply. _He forgets the Ser._ Despite his rise in station, Davos’ had brought him little respect. _I will always be a man of fleabottom to these knights and lordlings._

He found Stannis astride a tall black destrier. The young lord’s surcoat was golden with the black crowned stag prancing across his chest. He wore dark steel plate over a hauberk of mail and the visor of his great helm was up allowing Davos to see his dark blue eyes. If Stannis had any joy that a battle had been averted, his face did not show it. At the age of eighteen, Stannis was a stern and humorless as a man thrice his age.

“My lord.” Davos greeted. Fifty mounted men were readying beside Stannis. Their heraldry marked them lords of the Stormlands, though most Davos did not recognize. A smuggler was intimate with the purple grape cluster of House Redwyne, the blazing lighthouse of House Hightower and the quartered yellow sun and white crescent moon of House Tarth but those were houses who owned great ports and fleets that a smuggler must run from; most of these knights were from inland houses and the symbol of their nobility was meaningless to Davos.

“Ser Davos, you do know how to ride a horse?” Stannis asked. Davos nodded. “Good see to it then.” Stannis turned away before Davos could reply.

In truth Davos was a poor horseman. Ever since he had crawled out of Fleabottom in King’s Landing and onto the _Cobblecat_ Davos had been wed to the seas. He had ridden mules in Myr and a horse was not so different, though the beast was taller, faster and seemingly more temperamental. The onion knight felt his face heat as the other riders laughed when his mount nearly threw him from the saddle. _If only Dale could see me now._ The thought of his young son was enough motivation for Davos to focus on recovering control of his unruly mount.

The devastation the storm had wrought upon the village on the road to the fortress was plain. Several homes had been ripped to pieces. The structures closest to the coast had been washed away by the waves entirely. The tavern had a large hole in its slanted roof. Fortunately, the isle had a great deal of verticality and the sturdier structures made of brick and stone had survived the gale force winds. Waste, scraps of wood and anything not bolted down was strewn across the streets. A broken cart blocked their path and two village boys scrambled to remove the debris.

What captured Davos’ eye and made his heart quicken were the hard stares directed their way. Men and their wives stared from doorways with hostile gazes. A boy no older than ten spat in their wake, a wizened man emptied his tankard and his sourleaf chewing companion flashed a grim, red smile. In darker corners were men with shovels and rakes and murderous gazes. Davos was not the only to notice the grim nature of their audience. Knights laid their hands on their swords’ hilts and their horses whickered.

The two boys struggled to move the cart and Stannis ordered two more village men to assist. A second passed as the villagers processed the order and the two men Stannis addressed looked ready to protest until a glare from Stannis cowed them into motion. They passed through the village without further incident.

Sunlight streaked across the black walls of Dragonstone and Davos blinked to adjust his eyes. He had lived in the shadow of Aegon’s Hill and the Red Keep that crowned it for most of his life, he had seen the walls of New Castle in White Harbor and that of the Wolf’s Den, but he had seen no castle the likes of the one before him. The curtain wall was shaped like a great pair of wings. Stone sentries stood atop in all manner of shapes: griffins, manticores, serpents and basilisks and more. Beyond, large black dragons rose; snarling, flying or fighting, it took Davos a moment to realize that the beast were the castle’s towers.

Their column stopped three hundred yards from the castle’s opened gates. There were no men manning the walls save for those who hung from ropes tied to the stone sentries. Of them there were fifty. _What was their crime?_ Davos wondered. A knight in their party sounded a horn announcing their arrival and they waited. And then waited. Several minutes passed and Davos could see the shift in Stannis’ jaw. _He is grinding his teeth._ Finally, a small man emerged from the maw of the castle’s gates.

He was barely five feet tall and near as wide. His cheeks were fat and his lips fatter. Dark eyes quivered with fear and the round man all but threw him self at the feet of Stannis’ horse. “Your Grace!”

“My lord.” Stannis corrected. The round man blinked stupidly. “Where is the man in charge?” Stannis demanded.

“Your grace, there is no one…”

“I am not the king, that honor belongs to my brother. You will address me as ‘my lord’. Now tell me, where is the man-at-arms or the castellan?”

“Your-“ A glare from Stannis halted the round man’s speech. “M’lord the castellan hangs. He is the one three to the left.” The round man pointed.

Stannis frowned. “On whose orders were these men hanged?”

“Lord Lucerys ordered the dungeons emptied and those men hanged the night before he fled. He said- He said-“

“Spit it out.” Stannis ordered, sparing little regard for the man’s quivering.

“He said traitors and oathbreakers will receive no mercy.” The round man’s shoulders hunched as if he feared Stannis would hold him responsible for his message.

“And Ser Willem Darry? Does he still live?” Stannis asked.

If possible, the round man seemed to grow even more fearful. Another glare from Stannis was needed before he could speak. “Ser Willem has barricaded himself in the Sea Dragon Tower along with the Queen and her children.”

The news brought a fresh scowl to Stannis’ face. “To what end? He does know that we come in peace?”

“Ser Willem swears he will not release the queen or her children.” The round man squeaked.  

Stannis’ scowl deepened.

They waited until the main strength of their host had joined them and then Stannis marched the force beneath the castle’s portcullis. Davos’ was wide eyed as they entered the gaping dragon’s maw that formed the entrance to the Great Hall which itself was shaped as a great dragon lying upon its belly. There was no resistance to greet them save for Ser Willem and the half dozen loyal men that holed with him in the highest apartments of the sea dragon tower. Lucerys had fled with a large number of the castle’s warriors and the rest had returned to their homes on the isle or had been lost in the storm.  What was left was the castle’s staff who Stannis ordered to be questioned but unmolested. From the servants they learned of an epic final argument between Lucerys Velaryon and Ser Willem Darry. After his various defeats against Stannis, Lucerys had lost the will to fight and wished to abandon the Targaryens while Ser Willem remained steadfast in his loyalty and duty to the safety of the royal family.

“You are with me Davos.” Stannis said. Davos accompanied his lord and thirty men at arms as they marched across the gallery and passed through the inner and middle walls of the Stone Drum tower. The turnpike stairs of the Sea Dragon Tower were narrow and twisted like a coiling snake’s belly and the spears of the men screeched against the stone ceiling. Sea Dragon Tower was shaped like it’s namesake, a snarling wingless serpent more than a hundred feet tall with its head and jaw forming the rookery while the maester’s chamber and its associated apartments lay beneath. Queen Rhaella had been moved to the tower for her childbirth along with Prince Viserys and had not emerged since while Ser Willem claimed the top three levels of the tower.

The stairway opened to a hall wide enough for six men to stand abreast and at the end stood a single iron-banded door made of weirwood. Stannis assigned three men to guard the hallway while the rest of the castle was searched. “My lord Stannis!” One of the men exclaimed.

“Any change?” Stannis asked.

The guard shook his head. “No, my lord. Ser Willem claims they have enough food stored in the room to last them through the year and that their ravens are poised to call for allies.”

“What allies? The castle has been taken and he does not even control the tower for which he resides.” Stannis mused.

The guard shrugged. “I think the man is crazed.”

“Or clamors for death.” Another guard offered.

“If I may my lord?” Davos started. Stannis nodded. “Ser Willem is from a house that remained loyal to House Targaryen. His relative was in the Kingsguard was he not?”

“Yes.” Stannis replied.

“What we are asking him to do is against the very nature of his house. To willingly give up his Queen and her heirs… unless we can assure Ser Willem that the none of the royals will be harmed then I would bet that will he fight until his last breath.”

“They have already received that word. Robert offered peace months before my coming.” Stannis grinded his teeth.

“With all do respect my lord, words can be wind. Letters even more so. But an oath of protection from one such as yourself could be precisely what is needed.” Davos answered. Stannis sighed but accepted.

One of the guardsmen pounded upon the door at Stannis order. A minute passed and then came a muffled shout, “What?!”

“Lord Stannis Baratheon is here.” The guard replied.

“Speak.” Came the answer.

“Is this Ser Willem Darry?” Stannis asked the door.

“It is me boy. What do you want?” Stannis’ eyes narrowed in response to the insolence.

“A peaceful end to this war. Surrender and you have my word that no harm will come to the queen nor her children.”

“Peace?” Ser Willem scoffed. “Is what happened in King’s Landing called peace? Did Prince Rhaegar’s children fight your brother so fiercely that he was forced to order their deaths? Or did your new king fear Princess Elia’s prowess so much that she needed to die?”

Stannis’ jaw shifted from side to side. “I was not there and the killing of Rhaegar’s children was not my brother’s work.”

“But he did benefit greatly, did he not?” Willem countered.

Stannis glowered. “Enough. This is not the same situation. You have the word of my brother, my liege and my own that neither the queen or her children will be harmed.”

“Words are wind. Who is to blame you if the Prince catches a chill on the way to King’s Landing or his ship sinks before it can reach the wall? Who is to blame if the princess does not reach a year old? I do not believe your word or your brother’s.”

Davos could see the anger rising in Stannis and stepped forward before the situation was completely lost. “My lord Darry.” Davos exclaimed.

“Just Ser Darry.” Davos heard from the door. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Ser Davos Seaworth, Ser.”

“Seaworth? I am afraid I am not familiar with the name.”

“Mine is a new house.” Davos replied with a small smile. He knelt and removed his bag of finger bones from his neck and thrust the bag underneath the seal of the door. “Do you see that bag?”

“What am I looking at?” Came the reply.

“The tips of my left hand.” Davos answered.

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

“Most don’t. You see I was a smuggler before I met Lord Stannis. One of the best in the Seven Kingdoms, if you would forgive my bragging. I can sail in the blackest of night’s and the shallowest of waters and it was my skill that enabled me to sneak past the Redwyne blockade and provide Lord Stannis and his men much needed food to last the siege.”

“A very good story-“

Davos cut off Ser Willem before the man could dismiss him. “When the siege was lifted Lord Stannis offered to raise me up to a lord and he did but you see I was also a smuggler and my deeds of valor did not erase the ones of ill repute and so Stannis demanded that I be punished for those deeds before I could receive my reward.  I agreed, provided that Lord Stannis carry out the punishment himself and he did it with clean cuts from a cleaver. My point is that Lord Stannis is unlike other men. He sees both the good and bad in men and understands that one does not erase the other. He understands duty and would not ask a man to do something consider unlawful nor comprise upon their sworn oath. Most of all Stannis is a man of uncompromising honor and one whose word is as good as iron. Him swearing the safety of Queen Rhaella and her children is as close to a guarantee as you will have. Trust me.”

There was a heavy pause and Davos feared his words were useless. Then came Ser Darry’s response, “You sound like a good man Ser Davos. If a good man vouches for Lord Stannis, then I will believe it. If I open this door, my men and I swear to lower arms and let Lord Stannis enter. Though I will ask if I can introduce Lord Stannis to the royal family, to reduce their fright. Prince Viserys is particularly terrified.”

Stannis agreed to the terms. There was a great clamor behind the door as heavy furniture was moved and then the clatter of steel. Several minutes passed before the door was opened. Three men there were. Their arms were raised in surrender. Davos blinked in surprise.

“Is there no one else? We were told there were a half a dozen of you.” Davos questioned.

Ser Willem grinned. “A small exaggeration.” He was an old bear of a man. Inches shorter than Stannis but near a head taller than Davos with a bushy beard and head well salted. His two companions looked even older, one even only had one eye.

Stannis stared at Ser Willem suspiciously. “It would be unwise to play a trick.”

“The door is now open. My hand has already been played.” After Ser Willem was patted down, the knight led them into the chambers. Davos followed Stannis and three guardsmen into the room.

The drapes were closed and past the hallway, the room was nearly black. A guard drew the drapes, but the windows had been sealed and blackened by paint. “We need light.”

“There are candles here. Just a moment.” Ser Willem replied. The knight moved confidently in the darkness and several clicks of the firestarter preceded the small rush of illumination. Ser Willem repeated the process until several candles were lit. With the light, Davos could see several barrels of food and supplies and small dimpled urns that the candles rested upon.

“Where is the maester?” Stannis asked.

Ser Willem blinked. “He is one of the men hanging on the walls.”

Stannis’ jaw clenched. “And the queen?”

The knight smiled sadly. “Right this way.”

The adjacent chamber was strangely silent when they entered, and Ser Willem hastened to the light more candles in the room. Queen Rhaella was in a rocking chair faced opposite of the doorway. In her arms was the sleeping bundle of the newborn princess. Willem laid a hand on the queen’s shoulder.

Stannis looked around the room. “Where is the prince?” His tone was short.

Ser Willem stared at Stannis. A strange look was in his eyes. “He may have fled upstairs.”

Stannis glared and addressed his guards. “Find him.” They rushed up the staircase.

The queen sat silent. Her dress was black, and she wore a veil over her face. Her shoulders were pitched forward slightly, and her head bowed. A sense of unease settled upon Davos.

“My queen. I promise you that no harm will come to your children nor yourself. My brother has found it in his mercy…” Stannis trailed off. The queen did not react to his words. Ser Willem stared at Stannis and then Davos with a strange intensity.

Stannis walked around the queen and lifted her veil. There was a sharp intake of breath. “What is the meaning of this?” Stannis demanded. “She is already dead!” He kicked the chair and the queen’s neck snapped backward revealing a slash upon her throat.

“And not the queen.” Ser Willem said.

Stannis lunged, grabbed Ser Willem by the collar and slammed him up against the wall. “What trickery is this?”

Ser Willem wrapped his arms tightly around Stannis. “All I have done is for House Targaryen. Though I wish it was your brother here in your place.”

“What?” Surprise came across Stannis face. He struggled against the older man’s grip. Davos rushed to his lord’s aid.

“FOR HOUSE TARGARYEN!” Ser Willem yelled. His men yelled the same from the hall outside.

Boots stomped above them.

“Let go!” Stannis ordered. Davos drew his dagger and plunged into Ser Willem’s side. The knight grunted but tightened his grip.

“FOR HOUSE TARGARYEN!”

The guards emerged from the upper floor. Fear was on their faces. “My lord!”

“Help your lord!” Davos screamed at them.

“FOR HOUSE TARGARYEN!”

Davos hacked at Ser Willem’s arm. Blood splashed against his face. Ser Willem was smiling.

“Wildfire!”

And then the world exploded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it was not clear: 
> 
> The candles in the room acted as fuses for the wildfire. The wildfire was housed in small dimpled pots in the room Ser Willem was in as well as the room above. The windows were blackened because Wildfire can react to sunlight and ideally should be kept in dark places. Ser Willem bluffed a standoff specifically to attract Stannis to the room and ensure their trap would kill the most valuable person on the island. 
> 
> Lucerys was the mastermind behind this plot and him along with Ser Willem manipulated the information given to the Baratheons so that their treachery would be undiscovered. The Targaryens were smuggled safely off the isle with the remainder of the Targaryen fleet. Which puts them in a far less desperate situation than in canon. 
> 
> This an underhanded tactic that is far from honorable but Lucerys was hoping that his letter was flagrant enough for Robert to come to Dragonstone himself.
> 
> Edit: previously it was mentioned that the Smalljon Umber was one of Lyanna's bodyguards. A commenter correctly pointed out that the Smalljon was too young and was much closer to Robb's age so I have changed her bodyguard to the Greatjon Umber.


	5. The Griffin

**287AC**  

 **Lys**  

 **Lord Commander of Aemon I Targaryen**  

 

Sunlight came into the tavern through four portholes level with surrounding street.  The pale rays were laden with dust particles. This was a tavern in the slums on the eastern most section of Lys, frequented only by those brave, naïve or of ill repute. Today it was swelled by the ranks of the Golden Company flushed with their victory in the Disputed Lands over the Free City of Tyrosh. They were loud and brash. The silver haired serving girls bounced between the men, serving drinks and fending off the advances. Some were more successful than others. A shriek rang in the air followed by a chorus of laughter and then the harsh smack of flesh.  

“You fucking bitch!” The sellsword yelled out as his flagon of wine toppled into his lap. He stood, and his table nearly flipped.  

The serving girl tried to slink away but the sellsword’s companion at her back prevented her escape. He gripped her waist roughly.  

“Leave her.” The tavern master yelled. He was a large Tyroshi, his beard brightly colored and groomed into runic bronze rings. An iron cudgel hung at his waist though the man was wise to not brandish it. A brief standoff ensued until the Sellsword held up his hand in submission. The tavern master flashed an uneasy smile and set another round of drinks upon the men’s table. “For your troubles.”  

Arthur watched the exchange from a dark corner gave him view of the entire room save for the far corner obscured by the circular bar. A hood was on his head, a dagger at his waist and the sheathed Dawn leaned against his leg. Before him sat an untouched glass of dark ale. Sweat poured ran in rivets down its long neck, pooling beneath. His fingers danced impatiently against the wood. He arrested the motion when the serving girl approached.  

“Would you like to waste another?” The girl asked. _No not a girl, a woman._ Her eyes were a pale green, her hair the same silver-blonde curls of the Dragonlords, common among the people of Lys. She had thin lips and upon them rested an easy, almost teasing smile.  

“My apologies.” Ser Arthur answered in rough High Valyrian.  

“Is the ale that bad?” She cocked her head and rested a hand upon her hip. Her arms were thin yet toned, the simple rough spun dress she wore was clenched at the waist and hinted at the curves of her body.  

 _Focus._ Arthur reminded himself. “No, I was just distracted.” He took a swig of the beer to prove his point.  

Her smile only brightened. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”  

“You are a talker, aren’t you?” Arthur countered. They shared a laugh.  

Then the girl leaned close. “So, who are you looking for? A man who does not drink but frequently comes into this godforsaken place must be looking for someone.”  

“Do you question all your customers so intensely?” Despite himself, Arthur could not help but smile.  

“Only the cute ones.” The tavern girl answered. Before Arthur could process a reply, she asked, “So who are you looking for? Perhaps I have seen him.” 

He studied her in a moment of silence and then pulled a seat next to him. “Sit.” She did. “First, what is your name?”  

“Aelinor.” Came her reply.  

“Aelinor…” Ser Arthur trailed off.  

“Just, Aelinor.”  

“Very well, just Aelinor. Do you see that man over there? The one with the dark blue cloak and red hair? Do not point.” He scolded. She dropped her hand as if she had been burned. “Tell me what you know of him.”  

“Him?” Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. “He started coming here two years ago. Disappears for a while, like all sellswords do but between campaigns he always returns.”  

Arthur frowned. “Is that all?”  

“He spends a decent amount of coin on drink. Sometimes he stays late till the dawn is near rising.” Her reply was quick.  

Arthur smiled in return. “Does he have any friends?”  

“There is an ugly man that comes in with him. Crooked jaw, big ears, looks important though.”  

“A name would be helpful.” Arthur lamented.  

Aelinor’s expression fell. “I don’t know it.”  

“Could you find out?” he asked with a raised brow.  

Color bloomed upon her cheeks. “I suppose.”  

Arthur slid her three silvers adorned with the love goddess of Lys. “There is a gold one in your future if you can but be discreet.”  

Aelinor hesitated. Her gaze was wary. “You don’t mean to kill him?” 

Arthur shook his head. “No, I mean to know if he can still be called a friend.”  

Lys was an eternally warm city even as winter waned. The chill of winter was a mild one here at the entrance to the summer seas. The storms however, were fierce and the battering of the waves against the high sea walls was thunderous. Rain fell so heavy that it would have created rivers in the streets of King’s Landing but here in the ancient Valyrian city the water merely swelled the many canals and flowed in run offs to the churning blue-green sea.  

His cloak was quickly soaked and the chainmail hauberk he wore underneath followed. Arthur pulled his hood tighter but did not hasten his pace. The streets were slick, and nearly empty as the downpour persisted save for the slaves too old or crippled to be of any further use to their masters. They sat under shaded venues, in alleyways or huddled under the many trees lining the marble pathways. Many begged as Arthur passed, others stared suspiciously likely wondering if Arthur was a worthy target to rob. To the latter, Arthur flashed the steel of his dagger and tonight that was enough of a deterrent.  

He walked through slanted alleyways and waited around corners for those that would follow. When none came, Arthur ascended a narrow case of stone weathered from hundreds of years of rain and footsteps. His boots quickly became muddied from the runoff of the parks soil and when the park ended Arthur turned right and walked a mile down a pathway adjacent to a tributary of the city’s great canal.  

The sky was more black than grey when Ser Arthur turned into his neighborhood. Guards from the greater manses saluted as he passed. _Soldiers recognize soldiers._ Arthur returned their greeting.  

The streets of the neighborhood were lit by the elegant oil lamps wrought in the shape of swans and beautiful winged women. Sweet music guided him home. Their manse was an ancient one. Made of pale white stone, cracked and covered in high vines that fully encompassed its outer walls. They had purchased the manse at a bargain price. The seller had been impoverished and desperate and Ashara had taken advantage. While the manse was dated and in many ways in disrepair, the highlight of the property was its great garden. Modeled after the godswoods of Westeros, the garden even had a ironwood tree of the north.  

Ulrick was the first to greet him when he stepped through the doorway and then came a stumbling blur of silver. “Father!” Aemon cried as he did his best to tackle Arthur’s legs. With a laugh, Arthur hoisted the four-year-old into the air.   

The child’s eyes were filled with mirth. In the dim light of the candles and the torches that burned in their scones his dark grey eyes could be mistaken for black. In the light of the day the swirling hints of indigo were visible. Even so young, save for his eyes, Aemon was the very reflection of his late father, though Arthur could never imagine Rhaegar smiling with such frequency.  

Arthur listened absentmindedly as Aemon retold the activities of his day. The music paused as he stepped into the common room. “Do not stop on my account.”  

Ashara lifted her head. “He is asleep.” She motioned to Rickard who lay in her lap. “That one refuses.” She wiggled her finger accusingly at Aemon. 

“Not tired!” Aemon protested spiritedly. He shook his head and long strands of silver-gold were thrown in every direction. Ashara often braided his hair in a single braid but now it was loose and wild.  

“So we heard.” Artan said dryly. He lowered the wood harp from his lips.  

Arthur settled on the couch next to his sister, Aemon in tow. There was a chirp and Arthur felt the weight of nimble feet across his shoulders. Large purple eyes stared back at him. The lemur crawled down his chest and settled next to Aemon. Its silver fur glimmered in the flickering light. “Well hello to you as well Rhaegon.”  

The lemur blinked in return and settled next to Aemon in Arthur’s lap. Aemon stroked the fur of his furry companion.  

“Well if Aemon is not tired then perhaps another song is warranted. Do you agree my son?”  

Aemon nodded with a smile. “Thousand eyes and one.” The boy ordered.   

“Say please and ask nicely.” Ashara reminded. Chastised, Aemon listened followed the words of his aunt, apologized, and asked Artan to play.  

Artan laughed and then played while Ashara sang the lyrics.  

 _Oh_ _, How many eyes,_  

 _Does Lord Bloodraven have,_  

 _A thousand?_  

 _Or one?_  

 _A thousand and one_ _._  

Their boys each had their favorite songs. Rickard loved the _B_ _ear and_ _T_ _he_ _F_ _air_ _M_ _aiden_ , and _T_ _he Dornish_ _M_ _an’s_ _W_ _ife_ _,_ while Aemon loved _Thousand Eyes and One_ and _Brave Danny Flint_ _._  

Aemon nodded his head in tune with Ashara’s melodic voice. Rhaegon nuzzled against Aemon, its large ears flickered with each note. The young lemur’s body was half the size of their king, yet its large wide ears stood higher than Aemon’s head. Soon enough, Aemon’s eyes began to flicker and his head dipped and rose as he defiantly fought off sleep. Ashara noticed and reduced her singing to a delightful hum that finally coaxed the young boy to sleep. Even Rhaegon followed.  

Arthur and Ashara laid the boys in the connected nursery. Rhaegon crawled between them. When the door of the nursery shut behind them, the four adults gathered in the common room.  

“Have you made a decision?” Ashara asked. Her cheeks were flushed from Dornish Red. Arthur abstained by choice while Ulrick by duty as it was his night to stand vigil. The candles casted a warm glow across the room and made Ashara’s skin nearly golden. Arthur did not fail to notice the attentive looks the two knights gave his sister.  

“No, it is still too early.” Arthur answered.  

“It has been weeks…” Artan hinted. His feet were propped high on the arm rest and his head rested in his clasped hands.  

“Weeks are not nearly enough.” Ulrick disagreed.  

“Well, he was Prince Rhaegar’s squire and the Hand of the King… Robert has not pardoned him from exile because of it.”  

“All the more reason to betray us for a great boon. The Conningnton’s were reduced from great lords to landed knights and nine tenths of their lands stripped. I imagine the usurper would be more than happy to restore their house for Rhaegar’s son.”  

“Ulrick speaks truly.” Arthur said. He saw Ashara’s knowing smile in the corner of his eye. “What are you thinking?”  

Ashara shrugged noncommittal. “I think Jon would be the last man to betray Rhaegar’s heir. You and Rhaegar may have been too dense to notice the meaning behind the looks he sent Rhaegar’s way, but Elia and I took notice. Reach out to him and he might want to wear a white cloak himself.”  

Arthur knew better than to dismiss the sage council of his sister. She had been instrumental in their ease into exile and often proved a much better judge of character than he. “His loyalty may be assured but his presence could betray us in other ways.” Arthur reminded.  

“We need more allies Arthur. Connington’s support would do just as much for Aemon’s legitimacy as your sword.” Ashara spoke truly but Arthur’s worries did not easy.  

Ever since the fall of Dragonstone and the unjust murder of Stannis Baratheon, the phantom war between the remaining loyalist and the new regime had increased tenfold. Set back after set back made finding support for Aemon’s claim much more difficult. Just after a year in Lys their father had succumbed to a fever that had ravaged much of Starfall. In King’s Landing, Robert had begun raising a powerful standing army of landed knights and men at arms into a powerful force known as the King’s Men. While many of the men hailed from all over Westeros, most hailed from the crownlands and that made negotiations with any houses that would remain loyal to House Targaryen all the more difficult. Even Robert’s choice for his Master of Ships, Lord Alester Florent, was another complication in their eventual goal of courting the Reach.  

Arthur knew Mace Tyrell would not act unless victory seemed assured and the appointment of the Florents upon the high council, who were the most fervent rivals of the Tyrells and contenders to Highgarden itself, was a proverbial sword at their throats. By far the most devastating event in these past four years had been the assassination of Queen Rhaella who by reports took her attacker to the grave with her in defense of Prince Viserys. The queen had been prepared to renounce her son’s claim in favor of her grandson’s upon meeting him and yet with her death, now both Lucerys and Viserys were aware of Aemon’s existence and were insistent that Viserys’ claim was superior. Mercifully Lucerys had not seen fit to announce Aemon’s existence to the world, but the prospect of an alliance between the two branches of the exiled royal family remained fleeting.  

 _It is only time until_ _news of Aemon’s existence reaches Robert’s ears._ _Does he suspect anything amiss? What would he think when a Hand of Aerys’ and his Kingsguard ally?_ Arthur asked the room their opinion.  

“With that mindset, caution will defeat us before the usurper ever could. Jon Connignton is a fighter and we need more of those.” Artan said. Ashara nodded in agreement.  

“I say give it another week and then make your decision. The war may have been won if Connignton had proved victorious at Stoney Sept, perhaps he wants the opportunity to make amends for his defeat.” Ulrick offered.  

“For once my brother speaks wisely.” Artan joked and then he winced as Ulrick hit his shoulder.  

They shared another round of wine and exchanged stories until Ashara was swaying and Artan was snoring. Ulrick woke his twin and then departed to walk the grounds. Artan stumbled to his bedchamber, leaving Arthur and Ashara alone.  

His sister laid her head in his lap. Her normally dark tresses had been dyed blue to better hide her identity and the color made her violet eyes even more striking. Now her lids were closed, and she hummed in contentment as Arthur massaged her scalp.  

“How do you think Lyanna is faring?” Ashara asked.  

A stab of guilt bloomed in Arthur’s chest. If he had known Lyanna was likely to live, then he would have never left her. “Ashara.” Arthur warned, knowing where this would go.  

“No woman should be separated from her child. It is cruel. I do not know what I would do if Rickard was taken from me.” 

“I will bear the mark of cruelty if it means her son, our king, remains safe. I think Lyanna would agree.”  

By her expression, Ashara did not agree. “Ned Stark has upheld his promise. He has not betrayed us. Do you think he would still when he learns that we are raising not one but two of his nephews?”  

“Keeping his nephew’s identity a secret to protect his life is not equitable to allowing plots of rebellion against his king. Ned Stark may be an honorable and loyal man but he fought to depose of the Targaryens in the last war. Why would he change allegiance against his best friend in the next one? We have spoken of this, it is best that we hold off contact with the Starks until the boys are older.”  

“I think-“ 

“You think too highly of Ned Stark.” Arthur said gently. “He may not be our enemy, but he is certainly no ally. Stark was one of the paramount voices solidifying Robert’s claim to the throne despite knowing Aemon is alive.”  

“And just what was he supposed to do? On what grounds could he refuse without raising suspicion or igniting another rebellion?” Ashara questioned, her brow raised sharply.  

“You don’t think Lyanna’s testimony was her own idea? Stark coerced her to say those things.”  

“To protect herself and Aemon! I know you are smart enough to see that.” Ashara’s voice was as sharp as a dagger.  

“Perhaps.” He replied. He had surmised why Lyanna had said those things, but his anger had not fully dissipated. _No one wants a king born of rape. One born from a barely legitimate marriage is worse enough._   

“I just don’t want the first sight of their cousins to be across the battlefield. There are no victors when family fights family.”   

 _Tell that to the Blackfyres, I am sure they would disagree._ Arthur knew that the resultant war from Aemon putting forth his claim would turn brother against brother, liege against their vassal and perhaps even father against son. _If Stark’s heir should be across the battlefield then the boys must be ready to strike him down._ “Such is the nature of war. Stark will have a choice and that choice may decide his fate.”  

His sister swallowed bitterly and turned away from him, head still resting in his lap. He rubbed her back soothingly. “Will Edric join us when he is old enough?” She asked after a time. Their brother’s wife had died giving Elladan a son. The boy was only a year and a half younger than Aemon and as healthy as a child could be.  

“That depends on if we can convince Prince Oberyn to join us. Edric may be better served as the prince’s squire or squire as a marcher lord’s son.”  

“The heir to Starfall would be a worthy match for one of Ned’s daughters. I think the gods gave him twins for a reason.”  

Arthur could not help but smile at his sister’s persistence. Instead of responding, he wriggled his fingers against her side. Ashara laughed and attempted to get away from him.  

“Okay, I give in Arthur!” Ashara pleaded through her giggles. He relented.  

“A bit queer of a match, don’t you think? Winterfell and Starfall are at opposite ends of Westeros.”  

Ashara sat up to pitch her sell. “Both are old and powerful houses of First Men origin and the marriage could have the pretext of ending whatever feud remains as a result of your skirmish with Ned.” 

The reminder of his fallen brothers robbed Arthur of some of his cheer. “A bit early, let the world think I despise Lord Stark as much as I do his king.”  

Ashara rolled her eyes. “Well we should act before Robert gets the idea of betrothing his golden twins to Ned’s children.”  

The week passed quickly. Each night Arthur returned to the tavern to observe the prospective member of their conclave. By the fourth, Aelinor was practically overflowing with information.  

“His friend’s name is Myles Toyne.” She beamed.  

 _Toyne._ T he name brought back memories. House Toyne had a tumultuous history with House Targaryen. Terrence Toyne had been a knight of the Kingsguard for Aegon IV a nd the knight had met quite the brutal end when discovered a bed with the king’s second Bracken mistress. The House had met its downfall when Ser Terrence’s brothers attempted to avenge him only to be slain by Aemon the Dragonknight. Those events had happened over a hundred years ago and yet the house’s relationship with the crown had never been mended. Rhaegar had unhorsed Simon Toyne at the tourney of Storm’s End and Barristan slew him in the Kingswood. _If this Myles shares anything with his_ _forbears,_ _then he is more likely to be our enemy._ The association with Jon was troubling. Arthur saw Jon drink with many men but none more than Myles.  

“Anything else?” Arthur asked Aelinor.  

“About the redhead or the ugly one?” She whispered.  

“Both.” Arthur grinned.  

“They both enjoy pillow houses and can afford the good ones.”  

Lys was built by the dragonlords as a pleasure city, it was not surprising that men would partake in the trade it was designed for. “Is that all?” He did not hide his disappointment.  

“Well the ugly one likes big women, and I mean big.” She spread her arms wide. “The redhead likes minstrels, the taller the better. Do you sing?”  

“No.” Arthur said deadpan.  

“A shame I think he’d like you, though you might be a bit too rugged for his tastes.” Aelinor teased.  

“Enough.” Arthur ordered. The tavern girl merely smiled and batted her eyes. Somehow, he found that both better and worse. She sat nearer than he was comfortable with though he supposed her companionship helped him blend in. Anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms Aelinor would be considered an incredible beauty and yet here in Lys she was just another face in the crowd.  

“So, tell me what type of brothels do you frequent?”  

“I don’t.”  

“Oh?” A look of surprise came upon her face. “Not at all?” He shook his head. “Why not?”  

 _My vows._ In this city, every moment of every day was a challenge to keep those vows. Nowhere in the world could such beauty be found in such high concentration. For his brothers their vows of celibacy had been flexible. Ser Leywn became enchanted with a woman from this city and she was his paramour until his death. Ser Gerold had a love he visited whenever the knight made a trip to Old Town. Jon and Oswell made infrequent trips to the street of silk but only Arthur and Barristan interpreted their vows in the literal sense. “My own reasons-“  

“A wife?” Aelinor asked quickly.  

Arthur shot her a pointed look. “You are rather inquisitive.”  

“Can you blame a girl?”  

Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. Jon Connington stood suddenly and steadied himself with a hand on Myles Toyne’s shoulder.  

Arthur watched Jon Connignton climb the stairs and make his exist. The knight gathered his sword, a hand stilled him before he could stand.  

“Wait.” Aelinor protested.  

Arthur reached into his coin purse and sild two gold pieces to her. “I almost forgot.” 

Aelinor didn’t release her hold on his hand. “Will you come here again?”  

“Perhaps.” He stood.  

“I don’t even know your name.”  

“Arthur.” 

“Arthur…” 

“Just Arthur.” He smiled reassuringly and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.” And then he made his exit.  

The volatile weather persisted, and the sky above was a canvas of black and grey broken by the dim silver of the moon and blood red streaks of the setting sun. Arthur caught the sight of Jon’s blue cloak turning the corner and hastened his pace. Despite the weather, revelers filled the streets in droves. Men walked above the crowd on stilts and musicians drew crowds with lively music that added to the city’s vibrance. Beautiful women prowled in elegant dresses, advertising their respective pillow houses and the collection of their perfumes made Arthur dizzy. He waded through the sea of bodies maintaining at the very least a ten-yard distance from his target.  

Jon Connington walked unaware to Arthur’s pursuit. They turned down a side street and Arthur slowed his pace, increasing the distance even further. He frowned when Jon turned down an alley and counted a long count of twenty before following.  

Instinct and quick reflexes saved Arthur from the blade directed to his throat. His fist connected with his attacker’s side before the man could follow with another strike. Jon grunted and then his dagger clattered to the ground as Arthur laid an iron grip around his wrist and twisted his arm painfully. “Calm yourself.” Arthur ordered and then he shoved Jon away.  

“Ser Arthur?” Incredulity colored Jon’s face.  

“Hello Jon.” Arthur said simply.  

The griffin lord glared in return. “What are you doing following me?’ 

“Take your hand away from your sword lest you lose it. A few years in the Golden Company is not enough for you to match yourself against me. As for why I have followed you, my reasons are my own.” Arthur smiled as Jon Connington bristled. _You still have that temper I see._  

“Well, you have followed so what do you want?”  

“First, why have you not answered Lucerys’ call to arms?”  

“I could ask the same of you.” Jon growled. His beard was thicker than Arthur remembered, a thick coat of fiery red that covered his chin and cheeks. So different from the boy who had been proud of the wisp of hair above his lip. His hair reached past his ears, well maintained and he wore a dark doublet with wide sleeves.  

“I am not the one under question.” Arthur answered.  

“And by what right can you question me? I fought for Aerys while you hid and did nothing.” Jon spat, his blue eyes glimmered with rage.  

“I was following the orders of our prince. If my duty had not compelled me otherwise then I would have been there beside you.” 

Jon shook his head. “And what was so important that you sat out the entire war? If you had been there at Stoney Sept Rhaegar would have lived.”  

“He might. We all have our own failures. Though my question remains unanswered, you were once the Hand of the King, surely Rhaegar’s brother would welcome you with open arms.”  

“Viserys is more of Aerys’ son than Rhaegar’s brother and Lucerys will only encourage that.” Jon said dismissively.  

“The boy is only one and ten, we know not what man he will become.” Arthur offered though he shared Jon’s reservations. Lucerys was clever and devious but he was also one of those that had encouraged Aerys’ paranoia and tendency to violence in the worst way. If Rhaegar had been successful in deposing of his father, Lucerys would have been one of the lords suddenly removed from their power.  

“You asked for my answer and there you have it. Now can I go?”  

Arthur grabbed Jon’s dagger from the ground and examined it with a careful eye. Much could be learned of a man from how well maintained his blades. A man who neglected his weapons was likely to be neglectful in other areas of his life as well. _The dagger is sharp and polished to a sheen._ The nerves on Jon’s face were plain. Arthur returned the dagger.  

As Jon returned the weapon to his sword-belt Arthur asked, “And if you had the chance to fulfill Rhaegar’s will would you take it?”  

“Rhaegar’s will?” Confusion lined Jon’s face. “Do you mean vengeance? Aye, if I could kill the usurper then I would but Robert is a king and suicide is hardly appealing. Is that the answer to the great mystery of what the Sword of the Morning has been occupied with in his exile? Not even you could kill Robert Baratheon now.”  

“When I am done the usurper will lie in the ground but that is not the end goal, only a step in the journey.” Arthur answered.  

“Stop being so damn cryptic.” Jon all but screamed. He laid a hand on the wall to steady himself. “So, you mean to fight for Viserys? Is that it?”  

“No, I may not have my white cloak, but I have not forgotten my duty to my king. Do you see _Prince_ Viserys beside me?” 

Jon’s eyes widened. “I do not understand, Aegon died in the sack. How could you-“  

“Not Aegon.” Arthur said sadly. “Rhaegar married a second time and had a second son. An Aemon.”  

“Do not jest.” Jon said his voice was barely above a whisper. 

“A boy of four. Hair more silver than his father’s, eyes more like his mother’s but undeniably Rhaegar’s son. He is bright and full of promise. Born of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”  

“I-“ Jon started but he was at loss of words.  

“I have been with him since the day he came into this world. Let me assure you, there is no doubt to his parentage.” Arthur stepped close and laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder.  

Jon shook his head in disbelief. “He _married_ her? But… I heard the lies that she spread.”  

Arthur sighed. “Lady Lyanna was near death when she delivered Aemon, I left her in the care of Lord Stark. I imagine Lyanna could not leave King’s Landing without imparting the details of her disappearance. The things she said were to protect her son.”  

“Is she with you now?” Jon asked. The tension that made him seem ready to burst was gone now replaced by the hint of happiness. _Ashara was right again._ Arthur realized. _Jon will join us._  

“No. Lord Stark remains committed to his king. Lyanna may want to join her son but the risk of contacting her is too great.”  

Jon nodded. He was silent for a while as he mulled over the information and then he asked, “Can I meet him?”  

Arthur smiled. “Not today. Think it over before you agree. The path we walk is a dangerous one.”  

“What is there to deliberate? Rhaegar’s son lives, there is nothing else that matters.” Jon’s reply came quick.  

“Then tomorrow, two hours before midday head to the temple of the Red God. I will send a man to meet you there. Come alone.”  

Jon’s eyes were filled with impatience, but he agreed. “Very well, I will see you then.”  

“One more thing. Tell no one of this. We have only survived so long because Robert is unaware of Aemon’s existence. If he knew then we would be cursed to the road for years.” Arthur warned.  

“My lips are sealed. And Arthur… thank you for this.”  

“For Rhaegar.” Arthur answered.  

“For Rhaegar.” Jon agreed.  

 

 **288AC**  

 **Winterfell**  

 **Lyanna Stark**  

 

Even with her wool-lined gloves Lyanna could still feel the cold. Last night had brought snowfall that only added to the high banks of white that engulfed the crowns of Winterfell’s roofs and towers and yet by midday the yard had been cleared and salted. Stone crunched under her feet as she parried, and the impact of blunt steel sounded across the training yard. As always, their training drew, and audience and she could feel the weight of several eyes on her.  

Lyanna darted forward, feinting a blow at her opponent’s hip. When he moved his sword to intercept, she turned her blade in an attempt to strike his side. Instead she yelped as her brother’s blade struck her fingers.  

“Too slow Lya.” Benjen teased.  

Lyanna glared in return. She remembered the days when Benjen could only hope to best her. _Those days are gone. He’s a foot taller and isn’t skin and bones._  

Benjen was now taller than Ned, as thin as a sword but stronger than he looked. He held his longsword loosely, taunting her as he twirled it. 

She adjusted her grip and checked her shield. It was a round shield made of pine instead of the heavier oak like Winterfell’s guards. The reduction in weight was welcome, no matter how hard she trained Lyanna knew she would nearly always be weaker than any man she faced.  

“Come sister.” Benjen goaded. Come she did. Her brother may have been taller, stronger and perhaps even better than her but Lyanna refused to not give him a good fight.  

The blows he landed were glancing and she had long grown accustomed to cuts and bruises. She had even weathered a broken bone as her crooked right little finger would attest. The padded gambeson and iron cap she wore saved her from the worst of it. Over the years the training armor had become a sort of second skin. There were little obligations for her in Winterfell and she spent most of her free time in the yard with steel in hand. She fought the guardsmen, stable hands, Mikken the blacksmith and even at times Jory Cassel who was quickly shaping to be one of the best swords in Winterfell but Benjen was her preferred opponent. Her brother was the only one who was truly unafraid to not hold back in their spar. For the others she would always be their lady but Benjen had no qualms with knocking his sister into the dirt over and over again.  

Even Benjen would underestimate her though. He forwent a shield and only used two hands when needed. He circled and struck, testing her defense. Their blades clenched and then parted. Suddenly Benjen was moving, his grip two handed and he attacked as quick as a shadowcat. Lyanna narrowly redirected a slash at her shoulder but Benjen was already turning before she could answer. She jumped back as he swung low at her legs. They danced the steel dance, giving and taking ground until Benjen’s foot lost traction on a forgotten patch of ice. Lyanna shoulder checked her shield against his chest and then Benjen was falling.  

Applause sounded throughout the yard when Lyanna laid the blunt edge of her blade against the column of her brother’s throat. Their audience was mostly kitchen maids and washerwomen who hollered, “She Wolf!” Most men were either angry or embarrassed when Lyanna defeated them, Benjen merely smiled.  

“Lucky you sister. You know I had you there.”  

“Oooh?” Lyanna grinned. “I doubt those wildlings will be too concerned with honor when their swinging an axe at your head. Besides a girl needs to take every advantage she is given.”  

“Wise words. Mind helping me up?” Lyanna extended her hand and then yelped as she was pulled to the ground.  

“A lesson for a lesson sister, make sure your opponent is truly defeated before you let your guard down.” They rolled and wrestled on the cold ground. This time Lyanna had no hope of besting her brother. She sputtered as he smeared dirt across her face.  

“You stupid!” Lyanna exclaimed and then she was chasing him across the yard. Benjen’s long legs granted him a swiftness that Lyanna could not match and by the time she followed him around the bend into the outer courtyard, he had already formed a snowball. His first throw sailed wide and Lyanna dove into the snowbanks to make her own projectiles.  

A crowd of a dozen wide-eyed children gathered, and she beckoned them to join her against her brother. Benjen quickly recruited three of the larger boys in her army and then their entire hasty alliance descended into a freefall and a frenzy of snow.  

“No more.” Lyanna pleaded. Exhausted, she fell into the snow besides her brother, face numb and red from the cold.  

“I think that might be the most viscous battle I’ve ever fought.” Benjen joked. Both their chest rose and fell rapidly. Somehow keeping pace with the children was more strenuous than their martial training.  

“Woe to wildlings then. Though having children of your own might be even better practice.” A smile touched her lips.  

“Lyanna.” Benjen said, exasperated.  

“I will not apologize for wanting more nieces and nephews. The watch and the wall will still be there for you in a few decades.” She pushed the hair away from her face to stare pointedly at Benjen.  

He merely shook his head. “Cat and Ned are likely to fill this castle with an army of children. Three kids in their first three years of marriage… I imagine another will be on its way soon enough.”  

“Would you not want that? A family of your own?” She implored.  

“That is not for me.” Benjen said quickly. He pushed to his feet and then extended a hand to help her.  

“That is what I thought but you will not know how grateful you will be to have a little person of your own making until-“  The words stilled in her throat. Even now, near five years after her son was taken from her, the pain was still fresh. A dull ache in her heart that she thought gone until she thought of her son, or Arthur or _him._ Benjen noticed her sudden quiet and squeezed her hand reassuringly.  

Briefly her pain was gone once more, replaced by love as her brother and good-sister emerged from the Great Hall with their children in tow. Benjen scooped his nephew into his arms and boosted him into the air, Robb squealed in glee. Close behind was Arya who stumbled to Lyanna as fast as her little legs could take her. Lyanna spun with the little girl in her arms and then kissed her cheeks. Arya giggle and mocked an attempt to flee.  

“They saw you both playing in the snow and wanted to join.” Catelyn said warmly. Arya’s twin stood beside their mother. Despite the sister’s being born minutes apart, they could not be anymore different. Sansa, the eldest, already had the makings of a perfect southern lady. She had the auburn hair and Tully blue eyes of her mother. Her hair was always carefully combed and her dress, clean and immaculate. Arya on the other hand... Ned joked his second daughter was Lyanna come again. Indeed, Lyanna could see her face reflected in Arya’s. Her niece had the same brown hair, perpetually wild like hers and instead of her mother’s blue eyes, Arya’s were the customary Stark grey.  

“Is she still trying to convince you to postpone your journey to the wall?” Ned asked as his children played in the snow.  

“I have been successful for four years have I not?” Lyanna asked.  

“It is a bit late. The black brothers are likely to arrive by noon and the feast tonight…” Catelyn rambled.  

“Don’t worry Cat, despite how persuasive my sister thinks she is, I have already made my mind.” Benjen said. He winced when Lyanna nudged his ribs with her elbows.  

“Cannot blame a girl for trying.” She muttered.  

Benjen’s feast was limited somewhat by the recent end to winter but was still more extravagant than Lyanna could remember. The cooks served thirteen courses, a full six more than any feast her father organized. If Ned was bothered by the excess, he did not show it and the entire hall loved the sight of heavy casks of ale sitting at the heads of the tables. At the high table which sat on the dais that overlooked the Great Hall sat the Stark family along with Jeor Mormont and three black brothers.  

“To Lady Catelyn for arranging this warm farewell.” Benjen toasted. There was a great cheer that resounded throughout the hall. Catelyn’s face turned red with the praise but she smiled proudly.  

“To Gage for arranging this incredible meal, I doubt I will find the same quality at Castle Black.”  

“You won’t!” One of the black brothers yelled. Laughter rang through the hall.  

“To my brother and sister, I could not ask for a better family!” Benjen finished, his face red from the wine.  

“Stark! Stark! Stark!” the room cried.  

“What of me nuncle?” Little Robb asked. The room exploded with laughter. Catelyn stroked her son’s auburn hair.  

Lyanna smiled at her nephew. Robb had so much zeal. He was always smiling, gentle with his sisters and the delight of his caretakers. _Is my boy just as happy? Does he know of me?_ _Does he long for me as I do for him?_ She took another sip from her ale to rid herself of the thoughts. _I can’t even be certain of his hair color._ In some dreams it was the bright silver-blonde of his father’s but in others it was the more common brown of hers.  

The feast continued for several hours and the beer flowed freely. Even Ned wore a drunken smile when she left the hall. Winter had come and gone for the rest of Westeros but in the North snows were still common. Tonight, the snow fell in small flakes that melted the instant they touched Lyanna’s cheeks. Her breath came out in a cloud of white and Lyanna tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders. It was made from the furs of some great brown bear, its head making a fearsome hood. Maege Mormont had gifted to her on a visit to Winterfell.  

Despite the cold, the warmth of her chambers held little appeal for Lyanna. Instead she made her way to the Godswoods, grabbing an oil lantern on her way. The sounds of the castle died away sharply when she stepped into the wood’s dark embrace. Stone and gravel were replaced by ancient oak, pine and moss.  

 _Timeless._ Lyanna thought. As ancient as Winterfell was, the godswoods was older. Hundreds of Starks had walked the path before her and hundreds would after, all in the search of the wisdom they hoped the gods would provide.  

She could feel their presence in these primordial woods. Akin to a thousand eyes watching her. Moonlight streamed through the dark clouds and the treeline and her world was painted orange and silver. In the clearing a black pool sat before the white weirwood tree. Red stained the white bark of the tree. The face carved into the wood wore a terrible grin but its eyes wept blood red sap.  

Lyanna knelt before the heart tree and prayed. “Please protect my son and bring him back to me.” The Old Gods had no names, demanded little in the way of tribute and she did not know if their power extended across the narrow sea. She knew of no weirwoods in Essos and knew not if that meant that wherever Ser Arthur held her son was outside of their power but prayer was all she had remaining. Ned had sent Ser Rodrick along with five of Winterfell’s best guards, Ser Wendel Manderly of White Harbor (who knew the east better than any man of Winterfell) and enough coin to hire as many sellswords as needed when they finally found her boy. Despite their haste and the resources, the men were given, Ser Arthur remained as elusive as ever. She had thought Ser Arthur might have joined the queen and then prayed her boy was nowhere near when the news came of Rhaella’s gruesome fate but Ser Arthur had not been sighted with Viserys’ ships which prowled the far flung harbors of the free cities. Lyanna knew that with each day that went by, her boy would grow older and more accustomed to his situation. _He probably sees Ser Arthur as his father and Ashara as his mother._ _He does not need you._ She cursed herself for the thoughts and then cursed Ser Arthur for the cause of it all.  

“Let his death come quick if need be. Do not let my son see.” Like always the Old God’s did not answer.  

Lyanna bit her lip. Few knew of her web of lies and her son, even Catelyn was kept unaware. For that Lyanna had felt guilty. Cat had become the sister she never had but Ned insisted upon secrecy. For good reason, the war between Robert and Lucerys raged onwards. Ned told her of how the Spider had uncovered a plot by Targaryen loyalists to poison Robert’s queen and his children and even of a plot to assassinate Robert’s bastard son begotten on his paramour. She had never meant to tell Old Nan, but the old woman saw more than most even if her eyes had long gone blind. 

The old woman was sympathetic. “The Gods will answer your prayers Lyanna.” 

“They are taking a mighty long time then.” She had said.  

Old Nan’s gnarled fingers brushed through her hair. “In days forgotten the gods were offered blood for the greatest favors.”  

“Offered?” Lyanna asked.  

“Some would say the gods demanded.” Old Nan said, her voice barely above a whisper.  

“Did it work?” 

Old Nan smiled a toothless smile.  

Lyanna traced the trail of red that extended from the tree’s eyes. The sap was thick and sticky. She breathed deep and unsheathed the dagger at her belt. Her right glove hit the snow a moment later. A hiss escaped her lips as the skin of her palm parted under the edge of the blade. Her hand painted across the tree’s face and then she gripped a root as thick as her wrist. _How much blood is enough for an offering?_ When she checked her hand after a minute, blood still welled from the gash. Careful to leave her hand in contact with the tree, Lyanna took a seat with her back resting against the trunk. _You know what I want. Bring him back to me._ After a time, her eyes closed and her mind began to drift. 

 _Before her stood a_ _tall man, lean and powerfully built with long flowing silver hair. Rhaegar_ _.  She_ _thought,_ _and a million sensations rushed to her at once._ _Yet when_ _she peered closer_ _his eyes_ _were dark grey, near black instead of indigo._ _His face was_ _long and_ _handsome_ _with_ _noble_ _features_ _, his ey_ _es slanting and moody_ _._  

 _At his side was a_ _silver_ _-haired woman. She was lean, nubile and full breasted. Her_ _skin_ _golden_ _tanned_ _skin made her the very picture of loveliness. The woman grabbed the man’s hand and placed it across her midsection. A smile touched his lips._

 _The air filled with a song of sweet_ _sadness._  

 _Lyanna’s_ _vision_ _shifted,_ _and the man’s robes were replaced by_ _steel scarred from war and stained with blood._ _On his head sat a black crowned helm_ _, in his fist a_ _black_ _sword still wet with gore, behind him a city burned_ _while a_ _bove a white dragon breathing red flames danced on a field of black._  

 _“Jon!” She called_ _as her son turned away. She called again and again_ _but Jon_ _moved further away with each step he took_ _. He_ _r legs were anchored to the ground_ _and refused her summons to move_ _. Desperate Lyanna screamed, “Aemon!”_  

 _He turned his head and his dark_ _eyes_ _arrested her._ _Fear took her when she witnessed_ _the malice held in his gaze._  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few changes:  
> Sansa & Arya are fraternal twins which makes Arya a few years older than canon.  
> The first two Baratheon children are twins as well.  
> Robert has an older bastard son who is effectively Edric Storm in this canon.  
> Alester Florent is master of ships in place of Stannis.  
> Robert has a standing army called the King's Men. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated.


	6. Siege of Pyke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King's justice.

**Late 290AC**

**Iron Islands: Pyke**

**Ned Stark**

The beat of the oarmaster’s drums shook Ned’s bones. Four hundred golden oars sliced through the dark waves. Huge golden sails emblazoned with the ebony prancing stag of House Baratheon swelled with the wind. Ned stood at the prow of King Robert’s Hammer and before him was the war-ravaged bay of Pyke.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” Robert shouted over the drums from his place beside Ned. The king was armored in a full suit of grey plate armor enameled with golden rune work. Two golden stags stood on his shoulders and the great antlered helm he wore made him look akin to some horned god. His house’s stag was on his golden surcoat and a black cape flapped in the wind behind him, held to his shoulders by golden lion clasps. The king’s faceplate was up, showcasing his shadow of a beard and bright blue eyes. A longsword hung from his hip and Robert leaned with his fabled war-hammer like a cane.

“Aye.” Ned agreed. A shock of red and gold marked the dawn sky. Multicolored rays illuminated the rocky hills and jugged cliffs of the Isle of Pyke. Drifting amongst the rocks were the wreckages of the longships that were sworn to defend the isles. Amongst the broken wood and rocks floated the swollen bodies of fallen Ironborn sailors. Atop cliffs that jutted out over the frothing sea was the castle of House Greyjoy, its three tallest towers rose from isle like three twisted swords. The castle straddled three broken islands of bare-faced rock where the salt spray of the waves had stained the stone a hundred feet above its base. The three keeps of the castle had their own island and were connected by rope bridges that swayed in the wind. Lichen covered the soot grey and black stone like a thin coat of green fur.

From the curtain wall came a volley of arrows and scorpion bolts. No man on their ship ducked. King Robert’s Hammer was in the third line of ships, and even the ships in the front line were more than a hundred yards from the furthest flying bolt. A round of mocking horns blew in response, drawing a chuckle from Robert.

“Balon the Brave they call him, yet I wager by the end of this day he will retreat behind those stone walls of his and pray we do not bring down his entire castle into the sea.” Robert mused.

“I hear Balon is a godly man, he may thank you for hastening his meeting with his god,” Ned said dryly.

Robert grunted in distaste. “If he truly wanted to live to his namesake then he would stand firm and try to deny our docking. Let him defend his kingship with a sword. Win or lose at least he would have his glory.”

“You mean to face the possibility of single combat against yourself?” Ned asked with a raised brow.

Robert grinned. “Why not?”

“Then they would call him Balon the fool.” Ned had thought that there was no man alive who could stand against Robert in his form at the Trident. That may have been the truth but only because the king Robert had become was not yet born. Age had increased Robert’s strength, hardened his resolve and made him ten times fiercer.

“Aye you are right, Balon is no Rhaegar Targaryen.” Ned did his best to hide his wince. He knew his friend would like nothing more to kill Rhaegar once again. Viserys might be the substitute for that desire but Ned was determined that his nephew would not experience the same fate as his father. Every year that passed without his men finding Lyanna’s boy made him all the more anxious. They had come close in Lys. Word had reached Westeros of the founding of a new sellsword company by Targaryen loyalists in Lys. Ser Rodrick had confirmed that Ser Arthur was involved but they had lost his trail when the knight had left for a northern free city. Braavos was the most likely of the Free Cities. By far the richest and save for Volantis, the most influential of all of the nine. The frequent wars between the Braavosi freedom fighters and the Tyroshi slave trades would give Arthur the conflict needed to swell the ranks of his army. _Lyanna’s son’s army._ The thought was disquieting. Arthur may be a warrior nearly without peer, but no man could match Robert when all his fury was upon him. And the Demon of the Trident would be reborn if his friend knew that Rhaegar had a surviving son. Unlike Lyanna’s son and Ser Arthur, Robert would have all of Westeros behind him and his King’s Men were among the finest trained soldiers that Westeros could produce.

The boy was weeks younger than Robb, seven years old and likely just beginning his martial training. _Have you told him yet that you stole him from his mother?  Does he even know that Stark blood runs through his veins?_ The years had whittled the respect Ned had once had for Ser Arthur Dayne. _You swore to keep him safe and yet you charge towards a war you cannot win._ Robert’s claim to the Iron Throne and dominion of the realm was unassailable. _As the Greyjoys are now learning._

“Where did you go, Ned? You went quiet for a while?” Robert asked.

“Thinking of my family.” The morning air had a crisp chill that reminded Ned of the North, his wife and the son he had never met. _Brandon._ He imagined a boy with his brother’s smile. Wide and confident. Word had come of Catelyn’s pregnancy after he had already answered Robert’s call to war. He wondered if his new son would have his brother’s hair.

“You are growing old far too quickly, Ned.” Robert’s massive hand slapped Ned’s back with such force that he stumbled. His friend really needed to stop forgetting his strength. “Rejoice that we are here to bring justice to these fucking squids.”

Despite himself, Ned could not help but smile. “Aye, justice.” And then he added, “And your hammer.”

Robert laughed and lifted the massive weapon in the air. The head of the weapon ended in a menacing spike that could punch through plate and mail with ease. It was polished to a sheen now, sunlight glinted off the golden stag emblazoned upon its side but for months that hammer had been drinking its fair share of Ironborn blood in this rebellion. The burning of Lannisport and its fleet had come as a surprise to everyone. The first attack in Balon’s Rebellion. Robert and his King’s men scrambled to defend the Riverlands while the Ironborn raided with impunity along the coast of the Westerlands. The Royal Fleet’s response had been hampered by the threat posed by a possible return of Viserys Targaryen. A sizeable portion of the fleet had been left in reserve in the Blackwater, a move that proved disastrous during the Battle of Fair Isle. Ever since it had been a struggle to gain supremacy of the waters off the western shore and the Ironborn took advantage by staging a dozen costly raids that emptied villages along the coast for several hundred miles.

While the war endured longer than anyone would have liked, slowly but surely the Ironborn were defeated at sea. Enough so that mainland armies could be ferried to the Iron Isles to finally put down the last of the resistance. The lords of the Reach, commanded by Lord Alestar Florent led the attack on Great Wyk, Ser Barristan Selmy commanded the invasion of Old Wyk, the Kingslayer and his father sought their vengeance on Orkmont. None had suffered from this rebellion more than the Westerlands and their Lannister overlords. In the dawn of the rebellion, Tygett Lannister, brother to Lord Tywin had sought to oppose the Ironborn’s attack on Lannisport, he was slain in single combat by Euron Greyjoy. Robert had reserved the seat of House Greyjoy for themselves.

This was where the fighting was expected to be the most contentious as the only plausible location to land their fleet was the isle’s only port, Lordsport. Robert brought with him more than sixty-five ships, more than half were barges, cogs and trading vessels repurposed from the waters of Oldtown. On the ships came the might of the King’s Men, eight-hundred knights, another thirteen-hundred men-at-arms, four-thousand men of the North, and twenty-five hundred from the Riverlands. The force was more than enough to completely crush the defenders of Pyke.

Robert’s powerful voice rippled across the deck and sounded over the water, loud enough that Ned was sure the men on the ships that rowed beside them could hear their king over the waves. “The Greyjoys have had their war. They have burned your fields, spoiled crops and mocked your gods. They have raped your wives and carried off your daughters. I say let’s go kill them! We will bring them to the King’s Justice!”

A cheer erupted on _King Robert’s Hammer_ that spread to _Princess Myrcella_ and _Stannis’ Vengeance._ Soon the other ships of the fleet took up the cheer so the entire bay seemed to roar. When the ships in the front line loosed their trebuchets and a rain of boulders and burning casks came down upon Lordsport, the cheers grew even louder. The battle for Pyke had begun.

By the time Ned sailed with his men to the docks of Lordsport, the near entirety of the town was ablaze. A column of smoke rose from the burning sept and the muddy streets were choked with ash. Buildings were reduced to burning husks or crushed from the barrage of the royal fleet’s siege engines.

The fighting in the twisting streets and alleyways was as fierce as any Ned had ever seen. Ironborn opposed them at every bend. With round shields made of oak and pine, clad in boiled leather or for those fortunate enough, chainmail with iron caps. They wielded swords, crossbows, crude axes, maces and even kitchen knives. For a time, they fought bravely but they could not hope to stand against the disciplined might of King Robert’s men.

“Shield wall!” The Ironborn commanders would scream but their defense would crumble against the steady advance of the King’s Men’s, armed with long spears and square shields. Ned saw Jorah Mormont take a man’s head with a single swing of his magnificent Valyrian steel sword. The Greatjon swung a greatsword as massive as it was ugly, sweeping his foes aside as child would its toys. A knight of House Manderly’s horse reared and its hoove caved in an ironman’s face.

Ahorse, Ned led his Northmen up the eastern edge of the town to the hill where the seat of House Botley loomed. Here the buildings pressed in the closest and the defenders of the town had overturned their fishing boats to make crude blockades to halt their progress. From the roofs and windows, the defenders fired crossbow bolts and arrows down upon them. The doors to the buildings had been barricaded and so rather than risk more men storming entrenched positions, Ned ordered the buildings burned. Torches were thrown in windows, any kindling that could be found was gathered and then served as fuel.

Faced with death by fire the bowmen abandoned their elevated positions. They made mad leaps to adjacent buildings. Two fell more than fifteen feet in their attempt. One shattered his legs in the fall while the other landed nimbly, rolling and then rising with an axe in hand. His impressive display was cut short by three arrows in his chest.

“Advance!” Ned shouted. It was a tough battle to reach the top of the hill. While they had the numbers, the Ironborn had elevated positions and knew the town. Twice Ned had to wheel his horse around to deal with Ironborn who had looped behind them. Aided with his men from Winterfell, Ned descended upon the defenders, a long axe in hand. The head of the first man he killed was nearly split in two by the blow of his axe. Ned pulled his weapon free. A spray of blood and brain followed. “Winterfell!” He shouted before riding to face another. A rough iron sword rose to meet his axe. Twice they traded blows until his opponent made the mistake of grabbing Ned’s stirrups. His axe severed the man’s hand at the wrist and then he bid his horse to trample his fallen opponent.

Arrows embedded themselves deep into his Northmen’s shields and their archers answered volley for volley. Slowly but surely, they progressed, cutting down those that stood in their way. For all the effort that the ironmen expended in the defense of their home, it was clear that Balon had not expected his war to reach his own shores. The docks had not been fired, the team of archers and warriors had been poorly placed to oppose their landing, no burning bunches of hay or rocks rolled down from the hills and even command of the Ironmen was lackluster. They were fierce warriors, there was no denying that, but they lacked the discipline needed to have any hope of repelling the king’s force.

The streets on the western edge of Lordsport were wider and harder pact than those of the east, allowing Robert’s knights to break through the defenders with much greater ease. Ned found his king already outside the walls of the fortress of Lordsport. They were twelve feet high, built into a massive square and lined with defenders.

Robert was in the center of the camp, yelling orders to a gathering of knights and lords. Two Kingsguards shadowed the king, their white cloaks billowed in the wind. Ser Mandon Moore was a knight from the Vale. He had unsettling grey eyes and a dead face that betrayed no expression. His fellow white cloak, Ser Preston Greenfield, stood near a head shorter than his brother in arms allowed Ned to approach the king.

“Do you mean to storm it?” Ned asked as he met his king.

Robert’s helm was off and his coal black locks were plastered about his brow by sweat. He poured a skin of water on his head and shook the water free from his hair. His blue eyes shined with mirth. “I mean to burn it if Lord Botley does not come out and kneel.”

Ned looked past his king and saw a youth chained hand and foot to a nearby tree. He was lean, dark-haired with a sullen face, bruised face. His left eye was swollen shut, his lip cut, yet the right eye remained defiant. “Is that a Greyjoy?”

Robert laughed. “Aye, Balon’s second son Marrian.”

“Maron.” The boy corrected. The words drew a laugh from all nearby.

“The fool found himself surrounded and his men abandoned him. Instead of surrendering he sought to challenge me in single combat. Brave, but he obviously inherited his father’s wits. Fortunately for him, I am not in the mood of killing children.”

“I am not a child!” Maron raged. He grunted as a man-at-arms kicked him in the ribs.

“Quiet boy, five and ten makes you not yet a man. Consider yourself grateful for our king’s mercy.” Ser Preston growled.

Robert merely grunted in annoyance. The king and Ned watched as their men moved to surround the fort. A line of archers gathered behind a wall of spears. Tows were tied just behind their arrowheads, set alight and then the arrows were loosed, falling behind the fortress walls a moment later. Ned could hear the cries of the defenders as they tried to combat the many small flames. Volley followed after volley until dozens of small fires grew great and the crown of their flames were visible over the wooden walls.

Lord Botley and his men eventually would surrender but by the time they emerged, bent over and coughing the smoke from their lungs, the fortress was well on its way to being reduced to ashes. Lordsport had fallen.

That night they feasted in the broken hovel that was left of Lordsport. The next day their force was split. Six thousand men were sent to lay siege to Castle Pyke, hundreds sent to forge and subdue the smaller settlements on the isle and the rest worked to offload, construct and prepare the great siege engines intended to bring Balon Greyjoy to heel.

By the third morning, a line of trebuchets, catapults, and ballista threatened Pyke’s walls and its defenders. Fishing ships had been converted into turtles, mobile structures on wheels with openings fore and aft so an iron-headed battering ram could swing. There were over a dozen siege towers and even more ladders with teams of anxious men waiting for Robert’s signal to storm the walls.

Pyke was a sparse isle with little trees and rocky soil that made farming difficult. Whatever resources that could be found from the land had already been snatched by Balon. Elsewhere on the island was not much different, even at the best of times, the smallfolk looked to the sea for their main food source. A force the size of theirs would starve if this siege lingered. Yet Pyke did not possess the legendary walls of Storm’s End. This siege would last as soon as those walls held. It would not be long enough for Balon.

The Lord Reaper of Pyke remained defiant, even when Maron was presented at his gates. Ned knew the lord’s heir had died beneath the walls of Seagard, slain by the sword of Jason Mallister when Rodrick Greyjoy tried storming the castle rather than risking a siege. Maron Greyjoy was now the heir to everything his father claimed and yet the lord spit down at them in defiance.

Rather than be perturbed by Balon’s defiance, Robert merely laughed and told Maron, “At this rate, it seems you’ll be the new Lord of Pyke.”

The trebuchets soon loosed their stones. While Pyke lacked many resources, it did not lock for ammunition. Stones shattered against the curtain wall and the towers behind it in a steady succession. Ned joined his friend in the command tent and proceeded to get royally drunk.

He was not alone in joining the king. The Greatjon matched Robert and the red priest, Thoros of Myr, drink for drink. Jason Mallister, Tytos Blackwood and his heir, Brynden, sang a cheery tune while they drank a hearty ale. Ned watched silently but with a smile on his face.

“It seems becoming a father has not made you forget how to have some fun, Ned.” Robert boomed. The king swayed under the effects of the copious amount of wine he had consumed. A serving girl from the isles spun away from the king’s grasping hands, giggling. He sat down heavily in a seat next to Ned.

Ned raised his cup. “The key is moderation, my friend.”

Robert made a dismissive gesture. “We have one life, why not live it?” This time when the king reached for a serving girl, he caught her in his grasp. Surprised, the girl’s eyes widened before she looped her arms around the king’s neck.

Ned shifted, uncomfortable at the display. Robert had always been popular. Boys wanted to be him, women were enamored by him but Robert was no longer a young and unmarried bachelor lord but the King. A man with a queen as well. _All men have their vices._ He told himself.  

 _Robert will never change._ His sister’s words echoed in his head. What would he say if Robert was Lyanna’s husband?

The girl did not leave Robert’s lap until she had planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “After this war, we will have a tourney, the likes of which this kingdom has not seen in a generation. You should bring your family.”

Ned smiled politely. “You know I am not one for tourneys, Your Grace.”

Robert was persistent. “Bah, think of your daughters then and you need to meet my sons. Strong boys, both of them.”

Ned knew of the Florent girl that had caught Robert’s eye. The niece of Robert’s Master of Ships and second daughter of a second son, she was highborn enough to be suitable as a king’s paramour, yet not so important to her family’s future that her liaisons with the king needed to be halted.

Jon Arryn had attempted to marry off Delena Florent, but he was overruled by Robert. Whoever this woman was she held some sway over Robert’s heart. Or likely what was between his legs. She had even borne Robert a son.

“How do their mothers get along?” Ned asked pointedly. A look of guilt came upon Robert’s face.

“Well enough. Cersei may stare a hole in Delana and may as well wear a chastity belt constructed by the smith but Delana does nothing to antagonize her. Robert leaned in close. The smell of wine on his breath was pervasive. “In fact, you may think I am talking out of my arse but Delly thinks Cersei joining us in our bed would be the end to all the tension. Maybe she is right.”

Ned shook his head. “Your paramour need not say anything to antagonize Cersei, her very presence at court is enough. And I heard that you nearly brought Mya down from the Vale. Do you think it is wise to antagonize the Lannisters? Need I remind you, Tywin Lannister is not above murdering children to advance his family’s position.”

Those words robbed Robert of his cheer. “Tywin Lannister is not the king, I am. Joff and Edric can grow up as close as brothers.” A shadow briefly covered his eyes. “Not like me and Stannis but like you and I, Ned. Tywin will not stand in the way of that. And with your daughter as Joff’s queen they will smash Viserys whenever he decides to make landfall.” Robert chuckled and raised his glass. “Or maybe I have not drunk myself to an early grave and have the honor of ending the Targaryen line for good.”

It took six days of continuous bombardment before the curtain wall of Pyke was breached. The crash of a great boulder against the south tower was followed by a thunderous groan as the tower collapsed. It tottered momentarily before falling upon the curtain wall. “Consider yourself fortunate, Maron. You may have been in that tower if you had made it back to the castle.” Robert taunted. He gave the order to storm the breach.

A flash of red and a blazing sword, colored green entered the breach first. Hundreds followed the mad rush of Thoros of Myr. Their war cries filled the air.

Less than an hour later, the defenders of Pyke were completely overwhelmed. Balon Greyjoy was brought before them in chains. His scowl was fierce. He nodded at his son, Maron, but was wordless. Behind him came a handsome woman with Balon’s two youngest children. The boy could have not been much older than ten. His cheeks were stained by tears, reflected by his mother whose skirt he clutched tightly. His sister looked a few years older, dark-haired and lean, she shared her father’s defiant look.

Eddard stood beside his friend and king. Robert’s face was stern and silent. His blue eyes fierce. Helmless and armored, the king made an imposing figure. The Kingsguard stood behind, their white armor blazed in the bright sun.

Balon was forced to his knees before the king. He grunted, “You may take my head but you cannot name me a traitor. No Greyjoy ever swore fealty to a Baratheon.”

“Swear one now or lose that head of yours,” Robert answered.

Balon’s jaw shifted. He acquiesced. “Fine, I guess only the Drowned God knows if I will be doing this again when the Dragon King lands.”

Ned sucked in a breath. _You fool._

“What did you say?” Robert glowered. Ned knew the signs of his friend’s rising anger. _Have the sense to beg forgiveness._

Apparently Balon was born without much sense. He shrugged, noncommittal. “The boy already killed one of you, who is to say he might not-“

Balon’s teeth shattered before the last of his intended words could spill past his lips. A spray of blood followed and then a gurgling sound came from his ruined mouth. Robert had drawn no weapon, yet his fists were armored in steel and his strength was incredible. Lady Greyjoy screamed, her young son cried harder, her daughter collapsed to her knees and Maron vomited.

Convulsions shook Balon’s body and an ugly purple and red bruise spread across half his face. It took five minutes for Balon to die. They waited, all while they heard him choke on his blood, bits of teeth and his tongue. Only once the man grew still did Robert draw his sword. A nod of his head and Maron was forced to his knees next to his father’s body.

“You can swear fealty without a smart remark or make the same mistake as your father.” Robert glared.

Maron swallowed heavily. He shook his head.

“I need your answer in words boy.”

The Lady of Pyke cried, “Don’t be a fool Maron, swear to him.”

It seemed the boy had more sense than his father. He listened to his mother’s counsel. Once the words were said, Robert raised him up.

“You are the new Lord of Pyke and the Iron Islands. No one can ever say King Robert did not know the meaning of mercy but understand my mercy has limits. If you think of vengeance for your father, know that I can return with ten times the number of men and create another island with your skulls.” Despite the threats his words carried, Robert’s tone was without malice. He slapped the young lord’s back.

For his part, Maron’s eyes did not meet the king’s. Instead, they were fixated on the lifeless form of his father. Ned could only imagine what he was thinking.

“Captives, Robert.” Ned reminded when it seemed like his friend would forget.

Robert nodded. “Aye, you are right, Ned. Fifteen, I imagine you have no heirs of your own body.” The new lord shook his head, still speechless. “Very well. Your brother and sister will suffice. Ned, Winterfell is already overrun by women, I suppose one more will not do any harm. His sister is yours. The boy can join his uncle at Casterly Rock.” Robert turned back to Maron. “Your father burned Tywin Lannister’s fleet. It is only fitting if the lion has to raise the kraken's son.”

The Lady of Pyke protested greatly and her boy had to be pried from her arms, kicking and screaming. “Not my Theon, please! Not my sweet boy.”

Robert turned his head away from the mother’s sobs. It fell upon Ned to answer her. “Ten years of peace and unquestioned loyalty and both will be returned to you unharmed.”

For all the kicking and screaming Lady Harlaw and her son produced it seemed her daughter, Asha, would go quietly. That is, until she pulled a knife from her boot and attempted to rush Robert. Her desperate attack was halted by Ser Preston’s fist hitting her stomach. She double over and dropped to the dirt in a heap. Ser Mandon Moore drew his sword to put an end to the girl before Robert halted him.

“No. There will be no more killing today if we can help it. Especially not a little girl.” He turned to Ned with a smile. “She is your responsibility now my friend. Better you than me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Butterfly effects abound. 
> 
> Next chapter will be called: The Shivers 
> 
> Kudos & comments appreciated.


	7. The Shivers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plague sweeps through Braavos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long while, I know. Be satisfied with this, please.

**The Lord Commander**

**291 AC Braavos**

Their king was dying. That much was plain. The apothecary’s face was grim when he removed his full faced mask. He took off his thick leather gloves with special care and discarded them in a brown sack. Arthur’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed. _That is all?_ It had taken a great effort to get this healer of vaunted skill to see their king. Yet, this one had spent only minutes with their king before admitting defeat.

“There is fluid in his lungs and he is too weak to even attempt to drain them. I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do.” The man said. He had a large nose, a balding head and deep inset eyes behind a pair of Myrish lenses. His garb was a black robe with a leather apron that covered his body from chest to shins.

“Are you sure it can’t be drained?” Ashara asked. His sister stood at the entrance to the room, far from their young king. She was the only one of them that had not fallen ill to the plague and by precaution remained far away from Aemon. Arthur took no such precaution, standing by the bedside of his young king. He and his nephew had both fallen ill as well but they had recovered. In Aemon the sickness had lingered and then worsened.

The apothecary barely spared Ashara a glance as he gathered his supplies. “The fluid is too extensive for it to clear naturally. Frankly, I am surprised that he still breathes. There is a strength to this child, undoubtedly so but that strength will fail eventually.”

Arthur grabbed the man by the shirt before he could leave. The apothecary seemed surprised by his strength. He relaxed his grip slightly. “Is there truly nothing else can be done?” _Leeching, purging, anything else._

The apothecary’s eyes softened. His look was one of regret. “Keep him warm and comfortable. With luck he will pass in his sleep.” Arthur released him. The man paused at the door. “I could hasten his passing if you so desire. He is unconscious but there is a possibility that he is in pain. An essence of nightshade would end that pain quickly.”

Arthur glared. “Just go.” He went. Ashara’s sobs filled their manse.

He took vigil at the chair by Aemon’s bed. Despite the heat outside, the boy was covered in thick woolen blankets. His silver hair hung limply about his head and his skin was pale. Dark circles surrounded the king’s eyes and blue veins could be seen, tracing across his forehead. Aemon’s eyes shifted restlessly beneath their lids. Occasionally a wince would appear on Aemon’s face. Arthur did not know whether to be worried or relieved. Such responses meant his king, his son for all practical measures, still dreamed and lived. In the early days of his sickness, Aemon had been in high spirits, laughing even as he shivered. Rickard laughed along with his cousin but when Rickard recovered, and Aemon worsened, all laughter ceased.

 _The gods are cruel._ Arthur decided. Dawn remained ever sharp. Under the combined efforts of his own marital knowledge and Connington’s skill in administration, the ranks of their fledging sellsword company swelled even without the influx of Rhaegar’s gold. By the will of the Keyholders of the Iron Bank, an inheritance could not be claimed by an heir younger than one and ten. Aemon was only eight. Yet, for all their caution and preparation Arthur could not guard his king from a threat such as this.

“Endure my king. Endure.” Aemon had endured. This plague, called the Shivers for all who contracted it had a coldness work through them that would not abate, had ravaged the great port city of Braavos.  It was said that one in four of all who grew sick perished within five days of the first shiver. Aemon had been battling his illness for ten days, but the fight had taken its toll. He had stopped eating two days ago. Water and soup needed to be trickled down his throat once he had lost consciousness. His cheeks were gaunt as were his limbs.

There was a blur of silver in his peripheral and Arthur felt Rhaegon settle on his shoulder. The lemur’s paw brushed Arthur’s cheek as if to offer comfort. A shuffle of bare feet against the wooden floors drew his attention.

Rickard was at the doorway, a grim expression on his face. Arthur watched him approach. It had only seemed like yesterday when both boys had been the picture of health, their rivalry in the training yard only matched by their fierce friendship. Each strived to be the next Sword of the Morning.

His nephew laid a hand on his shoulder. “He will not die uncle.” Rhaegon chirped in agreement. “I bested him in our last match. He needs to recover to even the score.”

“Let us hope.” Arthur replied. He ruffled his nephew’s hair. _Let us hope for a miracle._

Hours later he and Ashara were sequestered in his solar. Arthur felt anxious being away from Aemon, but Rickard had committed to standing vigil over his cousin. Once one fell ill from the disease, they could not get sick again. Rickard knew to keep Aemon on his side, so he would not choke when he coughed, and he would yell for help if needed.

Ashara was a wreck. Her cheeks were tear stained, her eyes had bags under them and Arthur worried she had not been sleeping. Aemon may not be of her blood, but he was just as much a son of hers as Rickard. In fact, the prevailing assumption by most they met in this city were that he and Ashara were a noble couple from Lys with two sons, one that favored his mother in looks and the other his father. While it was a strange thought to know that many thought he was married to his sister, they had done nothing to dispel the rumor. Such a lie would provide greater cover to confuse spies of the Iron Throne.

“If he dies then his body must be sent back to Winterfell where he can rest with his family.” Ashara said.

“No, it will not come to that.” Arthur denied. _Aemon is Rhaegar’s son._ He did not know if Rhaegar’s ashes had been ever allowed to reach Dragonstone, but Targaryen’s had burned their dead for centuries and entombed them beneath their ancestral fortress. _If Aemon dies, then he shall rest with his ancestors._ Of that, Arthur was sure. _Only if he dies. He may still recover._

“You heard what the apothecary said. It is only a matter of time.” His sister’s words were gentle, but they cut worse than any sword ever could.

“I do not understand. Rhaegar had never been sick. Nor had the king or queen. Why should his son get sick now?” Everyday Aemon looked more and more like his father. The similarities between the two were so apparent that Arthur had not worried when disease fell upon Braavos. Precautions had still been taken. Both Rickard and Aemon were not allowed beyond the walls of their manse, a measure both boys protested greatly. The number of people allowed to enter their manse had been restricted. Theirs was not a large home and their staff was small, two women who both cooked and cleaned. Arthur had dismissed them both when they showed the first signs of the disease, an inability to feel warm no matter what you drank or how many blankets you covered yourself in. He had known it was a death sentence for the two, but their lives weighed against Aemon’s, Ashara’s or Rickard’s was meaningless. He did what had needed to be done. Yet the moves had been for naught. Ulrick had fallen ill and then soon after Aemon and Rickard. The knight was despondent that he may have passed on the illness to their king, but Arthur bore him no ill will. No one could have known.

“Targaryens have died from disease before, Arthur. The gods are merely cruel to take him from us now.” Ashara’s voice was thick with grief and defeat.

Arthur nodded, too weary to respond with words. He gazed out the window. Winter had abated years before, yet it was still cool in this city of a thousand canals. He could see the roof of the Sealord’s Palace from the solar’s window. Below the streets were spare with activity. Traffic still flowed in the many canals that formed the veins of this city but many on those boats wore heavy cloaks and leather gloves with masks that covered their noses and mouths. A sneeze or cough in the wrong direction could be a death sentence for another.

Paranoia ruled this city, punctuated by fear and despair. If one traveled at dusk, then they would see grave collectors carrying bodies who moved amongst the bands of Bravos who still stalked the streets during hours nocturnal. The collectors of the dead wore robes of all white to announce their status as noncombatants. _Ghosts,_ the Braavosi called them.

“Have you told Jon?” Ashara asked.

“No, he does not need the distraction.” A sellsword company needed contracts to fill their coffers and victories to attract recruits. With their king still too young for fighting, and Arthur was needed here, Jon had more than enough skill and experience to effectively lead men. If Arthur had not swayed Connington to their cause, then he could have perhaps risen to the rank of Captain General in the Golden Company.

Disapproval was plain on Ashara’s face. “He should know, Arthur.”

“I know, and he will.” In truth, Arthur feared Jon Connington’s reaction to the news more than anyone else’s. Ashara would grieve greatly but she still had Rickard. Ulrick and Artan would return to their families. Connington however was still burdened by guilt of his perceived failure in the rebellion. Aemon was his chance for redemption. Without it, Arthur did not know if the man would ever recover.

Then came a knock at the door. Ulrick entered. Sweat beaded upon his brow and he panted for breath as if he had run some great distance. Arthur stood in alarm. “What is it?” He asked the knight.

“I think there may be some way to cure Aemon.” Ulrick said between deep breaths of air. Sweat plastered his blonde hair to his brow and he looked as if he had sprinted from halfway across the city. Artan stepped into the room behind his brother. Eight long years spent with the brothers made Arthur trust them as much as his former brothers, in some cases more so. They were just as committed to the cause as he, Ashara and Jon Connington, so he knew that the words Artan spoke were no empty boast.

“How? The apothecary we hired offered to ease Aemon’s passing unless there is someone that can perform miracles then it is hopeless.” Ashara’s voice was sharp. Ulrick met her tear laden gaze with one full of hope.

“But there is someone who has been said to work miracles. A Red Priestess from the Temple.” Bravos was the home of a thousand gods but there were few religions in this city with so many worshippers as the those who believed in R’hllor, The Lord of Light. At night their priests lit great night fires in four massive braziers which sat atop the temple on four great pillars. It was an incredible sight that could be seen from near anywhere in Bravos, a city many times more massive than King’s Landing. A sight made even more incredible when one considered just how expensive wood was in a city with an unquenchable taste for lumber.

“A parlor trick meant to delude their flock to believe that their prayers are actually worth their wind.” Ashara said. Arthur agreed. He had seen the crowds that normally gathered outside the temple during the sunset, where their holy men and women prayed again for the return of the sun. An aspect of their fire god and the setting sun was supposedly a representation of R’hllor’s never ending war against his eternal foe, the aptly named Great Other. The onset of the sickness had swelled their crowds considerably.

Ulrick shook his head. He was insistent. “No that is not it. I know it does sound unbelievable but practically everyone in the city talks of what she can do. They say she has healed dozens of children that were thought to be beyond hope.” Ashara’s skepticism did not dissipate but the longer Ulrick spoke the more it seemed his sister wanted to believe.

Finally, Ashara turned to him. “It is worth the try, Arthur.” He nodded in agreement. _Rhaegar would have done the same._ His late friend had believed his children would be the ones to save the world, how could Arthur let his last child die without exhausting every possibility of his recovery.

Artan spoke then, “We have to move quickly. The Priestess will only work her miracles when it is still daylight. Something about the Lord’s power being the greatest.” A glance out of the window revealed a waning sun. There were only a few hours until sunset.

“Can the priestess be brought here? Aemon is too weak to be safely moved.” Ashara asked. Her tears had dried now, and the new source of hope had stiffened her spine with determination.

Ulrick shook his head. “I have seen long lines of parents with their small children all clamoring for the priestess’s favor. I doubt she will ignore them for a single child. We have to carry him there.”

The decision had been made. Still, Arthur worried that it had been the wrong one. Aemon had not stirred when they lifted him from the bed nor when Rickard had hugged him and pleaded with him to be strong or when Ashara gave a tearful goodbye from across the room. There was still part of Arthur that insisted his son… his king would recover on his own, that the prayers of a delusional priestess were a folly. He was not a devout man, but he had grown with the teachings of the Seven and he could almost feel the scorn of Septon Jorgan for placing his faith in false gods.

A furred palm touched his face and Rhaegon’s tail wrapped around his neck as the lemur settled on his shoulder. Oddly intelligent indigo eyes stared at Arthur before turning back to the slumbering king in his arms. Aemon was wrapped in two thick blankets yet still he shivered. His eyes shifted restlessly beneath his lids. Arthur wondered what his king dreamed. He kissed the child’s brow. _Live my son._

**Heir of the Last Dragon**

 

He heard first the call of a crow. Then came the beat of wings as the bird drew closer. A weight settled on his chest. The crow called out, this time not with a bird’s voice but that of a man’s. “Awaken, Aemon. Open your eyes, Prince of Fire.”

 _I am awake._ Aemon wanted to tell the bird, but his mouth would not move. Nor would his eyes open. He could feel the bird’s ire grow as time went on.

“Open your eyes!” The bird screeched at him. Then Aemon felt pain blossom on his brow. To his horror the crow began tearing at his skin with its sharp beak. “Open your eye!” It screeched, over and over. The sound grew louder until it shook his bones.

Aemon bid his body to move. He was terrified by just how much effort it took to lift his arms. He could see black feathers and droplets of blood as his eyes struggled open. _My blood._ Even now that he could see, the crow still tore chunks of skin from his skull. Pain lanced through Aemon’s body but through that pain he finally found the strength to grab the bird by the throat. His hands clenched and the bird struggled. Talons tore at Aemon’s arms until he was forced to release the beast.

He reached for the wound on his forehead and to his shock felt something soft and slimy beneath his fingers. _An eye._ Aemon realized after a time. The skin around his new eye burned fiercely with each touch. Blood stained his fingers. _I have an eye on my head._ A smile came on his face. _What would Rickard think?_

With each breath came cold air that seared his lungs. Before him was a bleak landscape of grey and black. Shattered mountains rose in the distance and a dull sun peered through a haze of clouds. Aemon shivered at the sight. The call of the crow came again. When Aemon turned to find the bird, surprise took him. It was larger than any crow had the right to be, nearly as tall as himself. But that was not the most unsettling feature. Three eyes peered down at him. Two black and the third one green.

The bird sat on a white branch, the color of bleached bone. There were a hundred more like it, forming a forest. Instead of green, the leaves were blood red. Five petaled, they reached like hands out to the world. Hands attached to gnarled limbs. _Weirwoods._ Aemon reminded himself. _Aunt Ashara said they only grow in Westeros, in the lands of the North. My mother’s lands. Is that where I am? How did I get here? Where is Rickard or Father?_

“So many questions. No, you are not in the North. The man you call your father is with you now.” The bird tilted its head.

Aemon hid his shock. He did not know what to find more incredulous. The fact that the bird could speak or that it had read his mind. “What are you?” He questioned warily. His head and arms still ached from its attack.

“A crow with three eyes,” The bird answered. “What are you, Aemon?” The words echoed across the bleak landscape.

“A boy with three eyes,” Aemon returned, dryly.

The crow squawked in dissatisfaction. “Silly boy! You think yourself clever, but you live a life of lies.” It flapped its great wings and took to the skies. “No matter. He wants to see you. Follow and mayhaps you will prove worthy.”

The earth shook and the threes moved to make a winding path that pierced their depths. The crow landed on another branch further down the path. Its feathers ruffled when Aemon did not move. “Come silly boy! Come and hear what destiny waits for you.”

Aemon shivered but followed the bird through the trees. His aunt and father told him the dangers of trusting strangers, but he did not think they meant a strange talking bird. A bird that gave him a third eye.  

The pathway was narrow. White trees pressed in on either side. Carved into their bark were large gruesome faces. Fear nearly overcame him when a tree’s face moaned in silent agony. The other faces bore similar expressions of pain, though more troubling were the ones that looked angry. They stared at Aemon with hateful eyes that followed his every movement. Beneath the canopy of blood leaves, the air grew colder. A thin covering of snow littered the ground. It grew thicker the longer Aemon walked until his shins were covered in white. Still, the crow pressed onward and with no other option, Aemon followed.

Their walked stopped in a grotto made of living wood. The branches of the weirwood trees twisted against each other high above his head, forming a densely connected network of branches that nearly hid the bleak sky from sight. At first Aemon thought the path merely ended the trees shifted before him. _Not trees._ He realized. _Scales._ White scales and then a rush of heat.

Aemon’ sense of scale shifted. It was not a grotto that he stood in, but a prison meant to bind a dragon. Tree trunks impaled its red wings, branches grew in and out of its serpentine body, even through its empty socket. A long neck craned around Aemon. A red eye larger than his body stared directly at him. White horns the same color of its scales grew from the dragon’s wide triangular head. With each breath it exhaled came a pleasant heat that staved off the cold.

“You are not afraid, boy.” The dragon spoke. Black teeth as long as his father’s sword were revealed. Such a beast could swallow him whole with ease. _And still be hungry._

Aemon tilted his head. “Should I be? This is not real, and dreams cannot hurt me.” He had nightmares before, but he could remember none as strange as this.

The dragon laughed. A sound akin to two boulders smashing against each other. “Such confidence in one so young. It reminds me of your ancestor, a little boy like yourself that hatched into something greater.”

Aemon tilted his head. In the stories the talking dragons always spoke in riddles. He glanced around the beast as much as he could. _I spy no gold. The stories always mention gold, not trees._

“Pay attention boy.” The dragon rumbled. “The gifts I give are greater than gold.”

“What gifts?”

“Your third eye. Or have you already forgotten?” The question was sharp, and the dragons face twisted, becoming suddenly fierce.

“No.” Aemon answered at once. His heart raced. He ran a finger over his third eye. “I don’t think it works very well. I can’t see out of it.”

The dragon smiled. It was a sinister look. “You wish to see? Know that the eye I have opened for you will allow you to see much more than the two you were born with. Such a gift is not given freely. Such a gift does not come without sacrifice. If you survive, then you owe a debt.”

Aemon frowned. “What if I don’t want your gift?”

The dragon’s head snapped forward, so that the tip of its snout nearly touched Aemon’s chest. Its head was larger than oxen-drawn-cart. “I don’t care what you want. The fate of the world is a much larger concern than the wants and whims of a little boy. Even a little king.”

  _A king?_ The riddles of this dragon made no sense. _I want to wake up now._ He tried pinching his thigh, but it did nothing. The dragon noticed this.

“You know this is no ordinary dream, Aemon.” The crow and now this dragon knew his name.

“Who are you?” Aemon asked.

The dragon pulled back to loom above him. “I wore many names when I was quick, but the white wyrm seems most fitting now. The others are of a past life and no longer have meaning.” Then the dragon turned its head to address the big crow in the branches of its prison. “Take him. Let us see if he can fly.”

Before Aemon could react, the bird swooped from its branches to grab him by the shoulders. With each beat of its wings they rose higher off the ground. In a second, he was above the tree line. Ten more and the extent of the forest was revealed to him. A minute later and the peaks of the black mountains were at eye level. Soon it seemed the entire world was revealed to him.

The pain returned to his forehead and he gave a shudder as his third eye opened. _He saw a wolf, lean and grey-eyed and noble defend a great stag from a pack of golden lions. The wolf gave a howl and his own pack answered. Far away they were but at a terrible strength. The world shifted beneath him._

_In a land of smoke and fire, a woman danced amongst the flames. She was more beautiful than any creature had the right to be. Her long hair became wreathed in fire, her clothes turned to ash, but she was unburnt. Dragons, both black and red mated above a field of charred corpses._

_A man stood amongst a ruined city. Tall and handsome he was, clad in priceless black armor_ _. On his head sat a crown of crystal and gold._ _Beside him stood a shadow in woman’s form, long and tall and terrible, her hands alive with pale white fire. A city of wretches prostrated themselves before the two in worship. Robed priests moved through the worshippers. Two priests wrenched a woman from the crowd. They carried her kicking and screaming before the two figures and forced her to her knees. One priest held the woman’s mouth open while the other reached into a nearby box and produced what Aemon thought was a worm. He shuddered in sympathy as the priests forced the creature down the woman’s throat.  A smile drew across the armored man’s blue-stained lips._

_A pale wild beauty rode across a land covered in freshly fallen snow. Her eyes were as cold as the landscape around her, filled with determination. She was clad in dark furs that added bulk to her lean figure. Aemon knew she was a noble woman for only someone of distinguished birth could carry themselves with such grace. The landscape around her was foreboding. Trees pressed in close, their thin branches reached out like gnarled hands, ripping at the woman’s clothes and threatening to unseat her from the saddle. It seemed she was being chased by someone or something for her mount was at full canter and their path was filled with sharp turns and quick sprints meant to lose a pursuer. The chase did not end, no matter how hard the woman tried. Finally, she slowed her mount and turned to face her pursuers. Fear sparked in Aemon’s heart, but there was a bitter smile on the woman’s face. With a flourish she drew a slim blade, red and dark and beautiful, ripples of smoke played upon its length. A cold wind blew lifting her dark brown locks and with the wind came the scent of death._

“Fly!” The crow told him before releasing its grip on his shoulders.

Aemon cried out as he fell. The cold grew nearly unbearable.  He was sure he would freeze before he hit the ground.

“Fly or die!” The crow screeched. Its cry growing more frantic.

“Fly or die!”

As the ground loomed ever closer Aemon could discern a great graveyard of broken men. At first, he thought they were corpses for they were impaled upon jagged rocks as sharp as spears, but a chorus of agonized groans reached his ears. Their eyes looked skyward and a few were whole enough to reach out to him.

“Fly or die!” The crow screamed one final time, its voice filled with disappointment. Aemon’s limbs were too frozen to flap his arms though. All strength escaped him, and he closed eyes just before impact. _I failed._

 

 


	8. A Star Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title changes and minor retcon. 
> 
> The title change is meant to reflect Daenerys' increased role in this story. She was always a major character but she will now appear much much sooner. 
> 
> Minor retcon: I have dropped Jon's raven-haired lover from the plot line. Look back at Lyanna's dream now and you should see that the woman's appearance has been edited. For those of you curious it either would have been Rhaenys Targaryen or Allyria Dayne. There have been major modifications to the Outline that I think will work better for the story in the long run AND I just want to focus on Jon/Dany since the show seems to want to impload itself and any build up between their two characters.

**The Lord Commander**

**291 AC Braavos**

The priestess was far younger than Arthur expected her to be. She could not have been more than six and twenty, yet to the thousands squeezed into the courtyard of The Temple of the Lord of Light the priestess was greater than any queen. She was as beautiful as the last queen Arthur served. Raven black hair spilled to her waist, her skin was pale and adorned with pale pink tattoos that took the shape of flames. Her eyes were dark purple gems. An elaborate golden stole hung around her neck while a sash of similar color around her waist pulled her crimson tight around her slender body.

Flanking the priestess were four warriors of the Fiery Hand. Their armor was bright red, scaled with flowing golden silks. The warriors carried great halberds with ebon hafts more than six feet long. Still, the desperate crowd pressed in close enough that a few needed further discouragements with the butt of the weapons.

The courtyard was filled near to the brim. It had been difficult in itself to push their way past the gates before they were sealed in preparation for the ceremony of the setting sun. If Ulrick and Artan were not with him, Arthur was unsure he could have shoved his way through with an unconscious Aemon in his arms.

“What is she doing?” Arthur asked his companions. The priestess meandered through the crowd with seemingly no direction. She allowed them to grab at her long robes and dedicated an ear to listen to their pleas. More than a dozen languages were spoken to her and evidenced by her nuanced replies, the woman spoke them all. Her face remained impassive, however. Even as parents held up their dying children for her inspection. Some were younger than Aemon, toddlers, and infants, on death’s door before their life truly started. There were a few younglings who had clearly already passed yet their mothers were still hoping for some sort of miracle.

“She is deciding who is fit to receive the Lord’s blessing,” Artan answered. He and his brother stood at either side of Arthur, preventing the crowd from pressing in too close.

“How many does she often choose?” Arthur asked. His eyes never left the priestess. _High Priestess Morrigan,_ he reminded himself. The Priestess of Death and Fate, the masses called her.

“Not many,” Ulrick answered. The three of them shared a grimace.

Arthur wondered if the gods were playing him for a fool. Reliant on the whims a priestess of a religion he had no belief in to save the son of his greatest friend, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms could very well die because some witch refused to treat him. _I will not have it._ With a spine straightened by an iron-clad resolve, Arthur shoved through the crowd towards the priestess. The three of them were big men, well over six feet tall they towered over the majority of the crowd. Protest sounded in their wake, but they fell on deaf ears.

The priestess spotted their approach nearly as soon as her guards. While the men tensed and turned around her, she watched them with an inquisitive gaze. Up close, Arthur could discern subtle signs of Valyrian ancestry in the woman’s face. With her dark hair, she bore a passing resemblance to his sister though this priestess was inches shorter. Twin halberds of the Fiery Hand crossed to halt Arthur’s approach.

Arthur stared boldly at the priestess. She held his gaze for a moment before dropping her eyes to Aemon.

“Who is he?” Morrigan asked. To his surprise, she did not speak in the corrupted bastard tongue of Braavos but High Valyrian.

“My son,” Arthur answered roughly in the same tongue. He had never had the same dedication to learning the classical language as his sister but spending years guarding the royal family granted him a rough fluency. The priestess lips pursed as if she knew the words were a lie. Her eyes scanned his face. Satisfied, she made a gesture. The Fiery Hand lifted their halberds. Arthur stiffened when she stepped forward to stroke Aemon’s face.

The heat that poured from the woman’s skin seemed almost unnatural. Aemon leaned into her gentle touch. Her fingers caressed his cheek, pushing aside the strands of silver-gold hair that hovered near his brow. His hair was a profoundly different shade than Arthur’s own pale blonde, a shade or two paler than the silver-gold hair that he remembered Rhaegar having. The Blood of Old Valyria was strong in his king.

“Even in the depths of his sickness, he is as beautiful as the dragonlords of old,” The Priestess whispered. Arthur stiffened. Her lips curved upward. They were colored a dark blue. Those dark indigo eyes of hers shifted to both Artan and Ulrick. The brothers both wore similar expressions of concern, waiting with bated breath for the priestess’s answer.

“Follow me,” she ordered. They obeyed.

Arthur felt the stares of thousands. Parents stared at Aemon in his arms with eyes filled with envy. He pulled the young king closer to his chest. His stare, Ulrick and Artan, The Fiery Hand and the Morrigan’s presence were hopefully discouraging enough for Arthur could not draw Dawn from his back and fight with Aemon in his arms.

The Temple of the Lord of Light was one of the most impressive structures Arthur had ever seen. It was constructed of pale red stone with dark wooden roofs and gilded moldings. A stained-glass window dominated the face of the temple, shaped and colored as a shining sun. In the dying light, the glare cast by its window was nearly blinding. Atop its square tower was a massive iron brazier more than twenty feet across. Smaller braziers flanked its entrance while more were distributed throughout the courtyard and atop the walls. Instead of cheaper dung, the priest and priestesses of the temple used much more expensive wood. A luxury that undoubtedly cost a fortune in this city utterly lacking trees.

His tension only lessened when they passed through the tall archway of the Lord of Light’s temple. The interior was brighter than the exterior. Open flames were everywhere, so numerous that Arthur would have labeled them a hazard if the temple was not tended by pyromaniacs. Massive marble columns rose to the ceiling. Arthur’s eyes followed their length, widening to take in the details of the great mural that covered the cavernous ceiling in its entirety. The scenes depicted were too morbid and gruesome for Arthur to label the work beautiful. Yet each scene was done in painstaking detail. The splashes of blood were almost lifelike.

“Impressive is it not? How does it compare to your septs in Westeros?” The Priestess questioned.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. Her laughter graced his ears, echoing throughout the cavernous main chamber. “I see ten thousand faces every single day, I know men of the west when I see them.” Those deep purple eyes scanned the knights from top to bottom. “You three hail from the southern lands of Westeros, from the Stormlands or Dorne, I cannot decide.”

Arthur nodded but did not specify which kingdom. “It matters not where we hail from. What matters is if you can save my son.”

The lines of her face smoothed into a placid mask. “You do not mince words, Ser.” Her head tilted. “If I were a prideful woman, I might take offense.”

“But you’re not I take it?” Artan asked, his voice full of charm. The words drew a smile across the priestess’ lips. For once Arthur was grateful for his friend’s habit of flirting with every attractive woman, he laid his eyes on.

“Forgive our lord, my lady. His son’s condition has left us all tense. I am sure you are well aware of the stresses that a sick child place upon a parent,” Ulrick added.

Morrigan lifted her chin. “There is no longer a need for deception. The boy is not your son, is he?”

Arthur swallowed, hiding his disbelief. “How did you know?”

“Any priestess worth her robes knows how to read the flames. Some visions our Lord gives us are clearer than others. Just yesterday I saw three tall pale shadows. In the arms of one was a boy whose flame was nearly extinguished, making the world all the darker. You four nearly fit such a vision exactly. Shadows are always there to hide something. In this case, I believe the child’s identity is part of that deception, though I cannot discern why. Clearly, you care for him as much as any parent would, elsewise you would not be here.”

“We nearly fit your vision? Clearly, we are the group your God foretold. Could it be any more obvious that he wants you to grant us your help?” Artan pressed.

The Priestess’s eyes narrowed. “You overstep your bounds knight. Do not presume to tell me what our Lord’s will is. You neither have the authority nor the piety to do so.” Her voice cracked like a whip.

Ulrick was quick to cover for his brother’s mistake. “Apologies on my behalf of my brother. You see he is a bit of a buffoon and oft gets ahead of himself. He… we meant no offense.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied with his apology. “There was a second vision, one I am sure was connected though I cannot make much sense of it. A blade of pale flame casting a winged shadow on the lands of the far east. Judging by the looks of you I’d say you were all former knights turned sellswords. Perhaps that means you’ll earn some success in your profession or commit unspeakable acts of great significance. I cannot say.” The Priestess affixed a hard look at each of them. “Do you know of anything that matches such a description? I must be sure before I can act.”

Ulrick and Artan looked to Arthur. Gently he passed Aemon to Ulrick, who took the boy gently into his arms. Mindful of the Fiery Hand who still hovered near the priestess, Arthur unslung Dawn from his back and drew the blade. It separated from its sheath with an audible hiss. The greatsword came alive with light. Pale and brilliant.

The Priestess was driven speechless. She stared at Arthur for a long moment. Too long he thought, every second wasted in this display was another moment added to his king’s suffering. Finally, she spoke, “You’re Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.”

“Or he merely bares a similar blade,” Artan joked. Ulrick kicked him in the shin.

Arthur found no point in lying now. “I am.”

“The only warrior the King on the Iron Throne fears. They say he formed an army to stop you from reclaiming your vengeance. There are songs being sung of you as we speak.”

Arthur could no longer hide his ire. “I care not for songs. Will you heal my son or not?”

The Priestess stepped forward wordlessly. Ulrick hesitated when she reached for Aemon but a nod from Arthur had him handing their king over to the woman. To their surprise, she pressed her lips against the boy’s brow. Her purple eyes peered up at Arthur. “I will heal him, but our Lord’s gifts do not come freely. The gift of life always bears the steepest price. For only death can pay for it.”

“Death?” The one-word question was uttered by all three knights.

Morrigan’s face was solemn in response. “A child’s life is a fragile one. Too many die from hunger and disease before they have truly had the chance to live. Yet a child’s life is undeniably precious. Despite their fragility and often fleeting nature, we hold their lives in the greatest regard. Our Lord is of the same opinion. A price must be paid for his generosity, for only through his will can this child be returned from death’s threshold.”

Arthur swallowed. “And that price is death. Whose death?”

Morrigan cradled Aemon to her chest. The action reminded Arthur of just how much weight their king had lost. Even healthy he did not weigh much; like his cousin, Aemon had lost all childhood plumpness early on but now he felt little more than skin and bones. “For a normal child, I would say equivalency is enough. A young life for a young life. However, this is not a normal child. Is he?”

Arthur shook his head. “I suspect you have some idea of who he is.”

Morrigan nodded. “I do. There is legacy that flows through his veins. A legacy that must be respected. Three lives for this young king’s should suffice.” Her eyes left Aemon’s face to stare at Arthur once again. “I will perform the ritual but you will make the choice. My will is only a reflection of God’s but is you who beseeched him. Are you in agreement?”

The guilt should have been paralyzing. Yet, Arthur walked through the crowd alongside Morrigan without reservation. Desperate parents placed their children before them in the hopes of gathering Morrigan’s attention. With red ink, she drew a Valyrian glyph on the foreheads of those who beseeched her. For the three children Arthur chose, the glyph was of a different shape. A different word he knew but he was ignorant to both their meanings. High Valyrian was a difficult language to speak and an even more difficult language to write. The High Priestess was not the only one of her faith who bestowed her favor upon the worshippers but she was the most sought after. _The Priestess of Death and Fate._ Arthur reminded himself.

Arthur’s chosen sacrifices were all of age with Aemon. While all shivered in a telltale sign that they were sick, each of them appeared far healthier than his boy. If there was any truth to what the priestess spoke then Arthur did not want to risk Aemon’s life by providing her god with poor sacrifices. Watching Morrigan draw the runes across the three’s forehead was a strange experience. He found the grateful expressions on their faces a cruel mockery of their impending fate. Arthur squeezed his fist. _I am a Kingsguard and it is my duty to keep my king safe._ Still, Arthur wondered if Rhaegar were alive today would he have made such a sacrifice? How would his friend’s conscience handle such a decision?

Such a ceremony naturally coincided with the setting of the sun. Each day the priests and priestess would gather their masses in the courtyard of their great temple and pray together for the sun to rise once again. They did not see the sunset as merely a consequence of the movement of celestial bodies but a battle between their God and his eternal enemy, The Great Other. Days earlier Arthur would have found such notions utterly ridiculous but Morrigan had mentioned her god’s power was at its zenith at such an hour. Now he found himself singing the long and moaning prayer along with all the rest.

Morrigan took her place at a dais near the temple’s entrance. A cold breeze came over the walls and ruffled her elaborate robes. Firelight and shadows played across her pale skin granting her beauty an ethereal and terrible visage. In her hand, she held a golden scepter shaped into a scaled hand grasping a flame. Her voice grew deep and throaty and when she threw her head back it was almost as if she was in the throes of ecstasy. Perhaps, it was a trick played by her priests but almost as one, the flames burning in the great braziers turned from red to bright gold. The effect only lasted an instant, but it was enough to stun the crowd. Many through themselves to the ground in prostration, praying and begging in a manic fashion.

Arthur did not allow himself to be swept away in the ceremony. Yet hoped fueled his heart. That hope was rewarded when he entered the temple. Aemon was sitting up on the stone bench they had laid him upon, his back supported by Ulrick while Artan stared at the boy with wonder. They were on the upper floor of the temple, behind them rose the great stained-glass façade that composed the main face of the building. In the center of the glass, a warrior with a blazing sword reached for the heavens.

Aemon smiled weakly at Arthur when he caught sight of him. “Do you like my third eye father? A raven gave it to me.”

Arthur laughed and embraced his son. He kissed the top of the child’s head. “You’re alive, my son. You’re alive.” Tears spilled down his cheeks.

“But I didn’t fly,” Aemon mumbled. His voice was groggy with sleep.

Morrigan hovered near them. She leaned against a column, exhaustion clear in both her expression and the way she held herself. “He is well?” She asked. To Arthur’s surprise, Rhaegon rested on her shoulder, his tail wrapped around her neck. The lemur had a tendency to disappear and reappear without warning. Despite his light fur, Rhaegon was often hard to keep track of. Nimbler than any animal Arthur had ever known and with an innate inquisitive nature matched by only a human child.

“He is,” Arthur answered. Morrigan smiled but it lacked the zeal of earlier. He wondered just how much energy she had devoted to the ritual.

The priestess stepped forward and knelt to Aemon’s eye level. “I believe this one belongs to you.” As if the lemur understood her words, he leaped from her shoulder to land beside Aemon. The boy grinned at his animal companion.

“Thank you, my lady,” Aemon told the priestess. Even exhausted he did not forget his manners. Ashara had taught him well.

Morrigan studied Aemon for a long moment. After a time, she asked, “When you were sleeping did you dream?”

Aemon nodded.

“Can you tell me of your dream?” She asked gently.

He hesitated before speaking. “There was a crow with three eyes and a white dragon in a tree. They wanted me to fly but I couldn’t.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. _Why is she interested in a child’s fever dream?_

“To fly? Is that all they asked?” Morrigan questioned.

Aemon’s brow furrowed. “I think so,” He replied in a quiet voice.

She stroked his cheek. “And when you could not fly? What happened then? What did the bird and the dragon say?”

Aemon shook his head. “They didn’t say a thing, I failed.”

Morrigan lifted his chin. “You are a special boy Aemon. That much is clear to me. Someday soon that will be clear to the world as well.”

Confusion played across Aemon’s face. He looked to Arthur for clarity.

“Say thank you, Aemon,” Arthur told the child.

Aemon did not look satisfied by the answer but followed the command. “Thank you, my lady.”

Morrigan rose to her feet. She appeared troubled by the conversation. To Arthur, she said, “I am sure you will do all in your power to keep him safe. Do not waste the gift our Lord has bestowed upon the child.” Her purple eyes gleamed in the light of many fires. She whispered in his ear. “Ser Arthur, make no mistake that the reason your young king lives is that R’hllor willed it. I know not why; nor will I pretend to have insight into God’s reasoning but you would be wise to remember his power. More importantly, teach your son of his power.”

Arthur nodded but gave no confirmation. _Someday Aemon will retake the Iron Throne and it will be easier if the High Septon and his Most Devout see him as the Protector of the Faith, not a heathen._ Morrigan stared at him for a long moment before smiling. “You are a stubborn man I suspect. Just as well. I wish you good fortune in your days to come.” 

*

It should not have come as a surprise that their boat was gone. Theft of boats was a rampant crime in this city of a thousand canals. Neither of the three had taken the time to secure their vessel when their paramount concern was Aemon’s health. Now their long walk would serve as atonement for such an oversight.

“It is a three-mile walk back to the manse,” Ulrick provided. The words drew a sigh from his twin. Arthur’s lips thinned. Normally they would be able to hail a ferry back to their section of the city but with the Shivers still running rampant through the city, most ferrymen did not brave the waters. Braavos was easily twice as large as King’s Landing, both in population and sheer sprawl yet the streets were largely empty. There was not a true silence however, the sounds of sneezes and coughs filtered through open windows.

“We best get started then before the hour gets any later,” Artan said. The knight was in high spirits after Aemon’s regain of consciousness. To their shared amazement, any trace of fluid in Aemon’s lungs had been eradicated. He had not so much as coughed once since the ceremony. Color had returned to his skin and the boy had rattled off several dozen questions before finally succumbing to his exhaustion. Currently, he rode on Artan’s back, fast asleep. Rhaegon rode on Ulrick’s shoulders. His long ears were perked and his purple eyes held alertness that was strangely comforting. If there was any trouble to be found on these streets, Rhaegon would be the first to know.

“Ulrick take point, Artan you are in the middle,” Arthur ordered. The two knights fell into formation with practiced ease. Arthur may have had his reservations when they first expressed interest in joining him and Ashara but the knights had proven themselves time and time again. While they were not in the same caliber of warriors as his fallen brothers, Arthur would be hard pressed to find two men more loyal. Even Jon Connington had been in agreement. No small matter as Jon’s first criticism of Arthur’s handling of their planned restoration of Targaryen rule had been the skill and prestige of Aemon’s sworn protectors. House Spyre was little known outside of Dorne and their names would not strike fear in their enemies nor loyalty in their potential allies but Arthur knew each brother was deserving of a page in the White Book. Arthur would write their stories himself.

Their booted footsteps echoed against the stone pathways. A low-lying cloud settled over the city granting their setting a surreal look. The mist rolled over the waterways and limited their vision to just a few feet in front of them. There were others amidst the mist. Most were denizens of the city too poor to affords homes of their own so they lingered on the streets or in the alleyways.

The only illumination came from the oil lamps that hung from iron banded poles anchored into the ground. Their light was reflected by the moisture in the air creating halos and sharp gradients of light around each pole. Figures in the mist grew giant in the strange lighting, twelve-foot-tall shadows with exaggerated dimensions that materialized into much smaller men and women as they drew near.

Arthur had unslung Dawn from his back and held the greatsword by its sheath, ready to draw it if necessary. Braavos was a remarkably different city at night. Bravos, flamboyantly dressed cocksure sellswords prowled the streets looking for anyone willing to duel. It was assumed by most that if you were willing to brave the streets after sunset, with a blade at your side then you were willing to engage in such a duel.

For a time, it seemed that none would interrupt their journey back home, for they had been walking for the greater part of an hour without harassment. Rhaegon’s sudden angry yowl announced the men before Arthur caught sight of them. Once again, Arthur found himself three against seven.

The men paused at the sight of Arthur. Normally Bravos wore striped finery, lashed tunics, had gaudy jewelry that made them appear akin to human peacocks. They wanted their looks to attract as much attention as possible. While these men wore tight breeches and high striped socks, there were smears of mud and other filth across their garments. Their eyes looked feverish and their faces haggard. Three hailed from Tyrosh, evidenced by their garish hair coloring. Even with the dim light, Arthur could see the natural coloring of their hair beginning to show from their roots. _Hair Dye is expensive and these men can no longer afford it._

“We have no wish for a duel, friends,” Ser Arthur warned in Bravossi. He stepped in front of Ulrick who now carried Aemon.

“Father?” Aemon stirred to alertness. Ulrick set the boy down before settling into a defensive staff. Artan stepped to Arthur’s right, nearest to the canal, and laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. The action did not go unnoticed by the Bravos.

“You are out at night and armed, no one in this city does such a thing unless they are aching for a fight,” A dark-haired bravo countered in a richly accented voice. Despite his almost feral appearance, the bravo’s voice was almost friendly.

Artan spoke, his voice full of disarming charm. “Forgive us, friend, we are rather new to this city and are ignorant of its customs. We were returning from the Temple of the Lord of Light and our boat was stolen.” The knight gestured to Aemon behind him. “The little one was sick; the reason for our late walk.”

The bravo shook his head. His companions snickered. “An honest mistake friend but you three carry swords, and are tall, big, strong men. Surely you know how to use such weapons? My friends and I need a bit of entertainment. As you can see the streets are sparse and are lacking. Even the courtesans have been scared away. “

Artan’s smile lost some of its luster. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find it somewhere else. Our responsibility is to this child here, we mean to see him home safe. Surely you can understand?”

The dark-haired bravo shook his head. “How old are you boy?” Aemon did not answer; Arthur chanced a look behind him and saw his son’s defiant glare. Rhaegon was beside the child, hackles raised. Undeterred the bravo added, “Six? I’ve seen duels at a younger age.”

“I am eight,” Aemon corrected. The crowd of Bravos laughed uproariously.

“There is spirit in that one. Why don’t you grant your son the honor of seeing his father’s skills? You have the look of a Sellsword I think.” The dark-haired bravo spoke. He was a short and lean man clad in a burgundy brocade and stained yellow cloak.

“I don’t think he wants to fight, Terro,” His friend said with a smirk. This one was a bit taller with fair hair and a dark green jacket with a tear at the shoulder. “I’ll tell you what hand us your coin and we won’t test how good or bad you are with those swords.”

“That sounds a bit like robbery. I took you seven for the noble swords of Braavos not simple bandits,” Ulrick spoke. He too stepped beside Arthur, this time to his left.

“Men have to eat. Of late too many bakers have gotten sick and even the price of fish has risen to absurd levels. Surely you understand?” Another bravo spoke from their crowd. All seven men were armed with the skinny one-handed blades that had become synonymous with the city’s fighters. None had yet drawn their weapons but they all looked eager too.

Arthur whispered to his companions. “Keep Aemon to your backs. Do not let them behind you.” When outnumbered the best strategy was an aggressive offense. He gave them no warning. Dawn was unsheathed with a blinding light and Arthur leaped forward. The greatsword arced through the air. Terro was too slow to draw his own blade to save his life. Dawn’s ever-sharp edge tore through flesh and parted his head from shoulders. Arthur was already turning to face his next foe before the bravo’s body hit the stone. Orbello drew his slim blade, desperately attempting to parry the razor-sharp greatsword. Arthur slew him with a slash that nearly cut him in two.

Artan and Ulrick leaped into action. The sound of their melee seemed to echo throughout the city. Outnumbered, they fought with reckless ferocity. The blades of their opponents held a significant advantage for such a duel. One-handed, they gave a greater reach than the longswords Ulrick and Artan bore and the Bravos’ blades were well suited to quick and devastating thrusts. Ulrick gave a cry when a bravo stuck him at the hip. The knight did not fall and pressed in close to shove his longsword into the man’s belly.

Arthur fought three men at once. It took all his skill to parry their quick thrusts and flow between them, limiting them to attacking him one at a time. He slipped past one’s guard to land a slash at the man’s leg that collapsed his knee. Before Arthur could finish the man, his friend leaped to his defense with a savage cry. Dawn sang as Arthur was forced backward; too slow he could not counter the second bravo’s thrust at his belly.

The bravo’s cry of triumph was muttered too soon. The thin blade bent into a bow shape as its sharp tip was stopped by Arthur’s underlying shirt of ringmail. Then there was a blur of white fur. A scream tore from the bravo’s throat as Rhaegon clawed at his eyes. The lemur’s fangs ripped at the man’s face. Half his nose was gone and an eye before he could throw the lemur off. Artan’s sword through the back of his throat ended the bravo’s suffering.

The courage of the remaining three Bravos was broken. The two able-bodied men fled immediately abandoning their wounded friends.

“Mercy,” The bravo whose leg Arthur crippled pleaded. Dawn’s bite was sharp enough to sever the tendon at his knee. He tried to crawl at first but stopped when Arthur advanced on him. “Please,” He begged once again. Arthur kicked him to his back and drove the tip of Dawn into the man’s eye to pierce the brain behind it. There was no mercy to be found today.

“Thank you Rhaegon,” Arthur told the lemur. The fur around its muzzle was stained red as were its dark claws. Strangely intelligent, Rhaegon understood his praise. The lemur’s tail brushed Arthur’s cheek before it leaped over to Aemon.

Arthur grabbed Aemon from where he rested on the ground. He was still too weak to stand on his own yet his eyes were alert. Arthur saw fear and trepidation in them but they were fading rapidly. “Are you unharmed, Father?” Aemon questioned.

Arthur nodded after checking himself for wounds. That thrust to his abdomen would have been a slow but assured death for him if he had not been wearing mail. Fortunately, Bravos blades were poor weapons against any sort of armor. He looked to Artan and Ulrick. Ulrick had been stabbed a few times in his extremities and staggered into his brother’s arms. Save for a weeping cut on his cheek, Artan looked well.

Aemon wrapped his arms around Arthur’s neck while Rhaegon settled on the boy’s shoulder. Arthur carried his son on his back over to the bodies of the slain men. Ashara would protest if she were here but Arthur knew the boy needed to see. _He needs to understand._ "Do you know why I killed that man even when he begged me not to?”

“No Father,” Aemon answered in a small voice.

“There are times where mercy can serve you son and there are times where it can be a weakness. If I had let him live, he might seek vengeance for himself and his fallen friends. When his friends return to investigate, they will find his body along with the rest and know that they failed him when they fled.  Let it serve as a warning.”

Aemon nodded. “Be ruthless?” He asked.

Ned Stark’s battered face flashed in Arthur’s mind. “Aye, when it serves you. Be ruthless.”

**The Kingslayer**

**292 AC King’s Landing**

Jaime had served with King Robert Baratheon for the better part of the decade, yet today, less than a month after he had been released from his Kingsguard vows was the day he held the longest conversation with the king thus far. They were not alone in the king’s solar in the Red Keep. Ser Barristan Selmy sat to the king’s right. The knight was begrudgingly ordered from his post by the king to join them. Despite the king’s order, Barristan drank sparingly from the cup set before him.

The scorn across the elder knight’s face may as well have been written in text for it was so plain to see. Ever since Barristan returned from the Trident, he had never been a friend to Jaime. The knight saw himself fit to judge Jaime for the killing of Aerys. Regardless of the fact that Barristan himself still stood at Robert’s side while Ser Arthur raised an army in the east in Viserys’ name. _What will you do I wonder when Viserys Targaryen crosses the Narrow Sea with the Sword of the Morning leading his armies?_ The old man had earned his white cloak slaying the last Blackfyre but Jaime figured that Ser Arthur Dayne would prove more of a challenge than Maelys the Monstrous. When they held their first meeting in the White Sword Tower, Barristan had named Jaime a stain on the Kingsguard’s honor and only referred to him as Kingslayer since. Now the knight judged Jaime for the crime of having his vows absolved by the High Septon himself; vows that should have lasted till his death.

“Y-your father certainly works quickly.” Slurred the king. His cheeks were flushed from wine. Robert’s golden stag-horned crown lay on the table before him. A full beard of charcoal black hair covered his cheeks and jawline made neat from a morning trim. A drunken grin split his face. “How old were you when you swore your vows?”

“Fifteen,” Jaime answered.

“Rather young,” Robert started. “Are you still a virgin Kingslayer? Or did you get a chance to wet your cock before it became a crime?”

_Does my whore of a sister count?_ Jaime wanted to ask. He had fucked Cersei the morning of her wedding. He had bred his sister thrice and while Robert likely had an army of bastards by his own loins, including one dark-haired boy who roamed the halls of this very castle, all three of Robert’s trueborn children were, in fact, Jaime’s. _Or so Cersei tells me._ The twins, Joffrey and Myrcella, Jaime had little doubt of their parentage. Tommen’s was the question.

“The Kingslayer is not one who adheres to rules by the letter,” Barristan muttered. He took a sip from his cup. Jaime found himself wishing the knight spilled his wine all over his white armor and cloak.

“I hope you don’t prove a disappointment to your pretty new wife,” Robert chuckled. The words drew a snigger from Tyrion.

“If my brother needs tips on how to please his wife all he needs to do is ask me,” Tyrion boasted with a wide grin. Despite his diminutive size, Tyrion was matching the king drink for drink. Father had wanted to hide Tyrion away on this momentous day for House Lannister, the wedding between the two richest houses in the realm drew near the entire realm to King’s Landing and Tywin Lannister’s dwarf son was a sight not meant to be seen. Jaime had overruled his father on that notion. _I wonder if Father would thank Tyrion if he knew that he is the only reason this wedding is proceeding in the first place._ If Tyrion had never told Jaime that while he was fighting to avenge their uncle Tygett on the Iron Islands that Cersei was fucking their cousin Damion, Jaime would have never won the Tourney at Lannisport and crowned Lynesse Hightower as Queen of Love and Beauty. Such a crowning stirred their father’s ambitions and the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms asked the King of the Seven Kingdoms for a favor.

Jaime glared good-naturedly at his little brother. Tyrion may have earned Cersei’s eternal ire, but he had also earned Jaime’s eternal gratitude. Joining the Kingsguard had been Cersei’s idea, she had heard their father’s plans with Hoster Tully to marry him to Lysa. His position in the Kingsguard was supposed to keep them close. Cersei was the only woman he had ever lain with. The only woman he had ever wanted. Never had he contemplated that Cersei would find another lover while he was away at war. _She has always been a whore. You just made the mistake thinking she was yours alone._

Interrupting Tyrion and Robert’s conversation about whether he knew where to put _it_ , Jaime asked the king, “You never told me why you decided to honor my father’s request.”

Robert shrugged noncommittally. “Jon advised against it. So did Ned when I put the question to him.” Ned Stark was absent now, but he had been at the tourney months earlier, celebrating their victory over the Ironborn along with many of his Northmen. A certain sense of pride filled Jaime when he thought of Stark’s face after Jaime had unhorsed his bannerman, Jorah Mormont, to win the jousts.

“What convinced you?” Jaime questioned.

“Your sister if you can believe it,” Robert answered. He took a deep swig of wine. “Cersei thought she could command me to keep you in the Kingsguard. Me, the king. When that didn’t work, she turned really sweet and pulled me into her bed. That sister of yours normally guards her cunt like it possesses all the gold of Casterly Rock just past her sweet golden lips so I must have wanted to keep you close really badly.”

“Ah, Cersei. Our sweet sister is not as smart as she thinks she is,” Tyrion joked. His mismatched green and black eyes gleamed with mischief. Jaime’s removal from the Kingsguard robbed Tyrion of his birthright but the dwarf no doubt considered it a fair trade if Cersei suffered. Such was the nature of the Lannister family.

“So, you did it to spite her?” Jaime asked the king. He had thought the decision had more to it. Why he thought that escaped him now. Robert Baratheon was not a thinker. He was a lecher, a drinker, and a warrior who fashioned himself a hero.

“Mostly but your father has proved loyal,” Robert answered. He placed his elbows on the oaken table and leaned forward. “Plus, I do not have to worry about your loyalty when the boy king tries to press his claim. You stabbed his father in the back, your father killed his niece and nephew. There is little choice for House Lannister but to fight for me.”

Jaime swallowed. Tension in the air grew thick. Robert for all his faults was not the Mad King. However, he was not one who tolerated dubious loyalty. The Crownlands including Dragonstone were firmly under Robert’s fists and his private standing army had swelled considerably. An enormous expense for sure. One not possible without a sizable loan from Tywin Lannister.

“Don’t forget about our beloved niece and nephews. We are bound by blood, Your Grace.” Tyrion raised a glass in a toast. Robert returned the gesture.

Jaime watched Ser Barristan. The old knight wore a practiced mask that did not waver at the mention of Viserys. _No matter what you think you swore a vow and broke it. Same as me._

Their conversation was interrupted by the opening of the door, a scamper of feet and a black-haired blur. The six-year-old stopped before his father wearing a wide grin that was so similar to the king’s that he may as well have been a mirror. Less than half a year younger than Joffrey, the sons of Robert Baratheon could not have looked more different. Save for the large Florent ears, Edric inherited everything from his father. The coal black hair, the blue eyes, the jawline, and cheekbones. Perhaps it would have been smart on Cersei’s part to let the King’s seed come to fruition at least once but Cersei was hardly the wisest woman in Westeros.

“Edric! What did I tell you about interrupting your father?” Delena Florent appeared in the doorway. She was a pretty woman: tall, long brown hair, full figured with a pleasant smile that never seemed to abate no matter how severe Cersei’s barbs were. The darling of the court, many called her. A very pregnant darling, Jaime observed. _Another bastard to increase Cersei’s paranoia._  

“Sorry, Father,” Edric muttered. Robert ran a hand through the boy’s dark locks.

“No harm done, son. We were just giving the Kingslayer shit.”

Delena laid her hands on her hips. She turned to Jaime. “Are you excited, Ser Jaime? I’ve spoken to your betrothed and she is absolutely delightful.”

“Very excited,” Jaime said. Delena did speak truly. Lynesse did have a certain charm to her. It certainly helped that she was beautiful. It was why Jaime had chosen to crown her at the tourney. He needed a woman beautiful enough to make his sister jealous. He had succeeded. A Targaryen princess had married into the Hightowers more than a hundred years ago and the relation was likely responsible for a measure of Lynesse’s beauty. Lynesse had fair hair the color of ash and blue eyes that looked almost purple.

His musings were interrupted by Tyrion’s wine cup spilling in his lap. Jaime stood to avoid the spill. To no avail. A dark stain grew on his crotch. Tyrion withered under Jaime’s glare. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace. I have to make myself presentable.”

Robert nodded and Jaime left. None interrupted him in his march through Maegor’s Holdfast. By instinct, he almost made his way to the drawbridge to exit the inner castle before his mind caught up with his feet. The White Sword Tower had been his home for years. _I am no longer a Kingsguard._ He reminded himself.

Jaime made a sharp turn and led himself back deeper in the holdfast. His chamber here was as sparse as his former chamber in the White Sword Tower. Fortunately, he held a formal outfit in reserve. The tunic was crimson with the roaring lion of House Lannister emblazoned in gold across the breast. His new pants were black trimmed with the same crimson rather than the gold of the current soiled ones he wore.

The wine had soaked through his small clothes, so Jaime pushed them down past his ankles as well. His door opened without announcement. Jaime knew of only one who would be so bold. Cersei shut the door behind her. Even with all the anger that filled his heart, anger that was directed at his twin, he could not deny that she was stunning. Every inch a queen she was in a gown of red, white, and gold. The sash she wore was tight around her waist, highlighting her slender figure. The shape of her perfect breasts could be seen through the thin fabric of her dress. Her long blonde hair was worn loose, falling in loosely curled waves down her back.

Jaime did nothing to cover his nakedness. Instead, his eyes narrowed.  “What are you doing here?”

Cersei was unperturbed at his tone. She stalked towards him at a measured pace. Jaime watched her with critical eyes. His sister’s green eyes were filled with sadness. A year ago, such a sight would have ignited an instinctual need to comfort his sister. Now, he remained stiff even as she wrapped her arms around him.

“Jaime, my love. Please don’t do this,” She whispered against his neck. Her lips brushed against the column of his throat. Then pulled back to stare up at him.

Jaime did not return his sister’s embrace. He stared into her green eyes, studied her fair skin and pretty lips. His cock stiffened. “What would you have me do Cersei?” He asked.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Don’t marry her, please. I need you here in court. We are stronger together. How am I supposed to protect our son’s birthright by myself? Please, your children need you.”

Jaime ran a hand through Cersei’s long blonde locks. He could not help himself but take a long taste of her lips. His sister returned the kiss with desperate enthusiasm. _To come to me on the day like this, she has to be desperate._ Anyone could walk in on them at this morning hour. The danger of discovery had always made their lovemaking all the more exciting.

“Stay with us please,” Cersei repeated. She kissed his collarbone and then his chest. He hissed when her tongue brushed over his nipple. One soft hand slipped around his cock, she stroked him while playing with his sack. When she dropped to her knees and her mouth slipped around him, Jaime threw his head back. His fingers tightened in her hair. A memory from ten years ago came to him. He had returned to King’s Landing after being knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne following their victory over the Kingswood Brotherhood. Jaime hadn’t seen Cersei in years when she came to him. _Dressed as a common girl._ He remembered the sight like it was yesterday. Those roughspun clothes she had worn made her even more beautiful, akin to a gem found in the dirt. Her sweet words had been enough to convince him to give up his birthright. What was Casterly Rock compared to a lifetime spent with his other half?

Jaime’s hips surged forward, forcing Cersei to take him deeper. She choked, only briefly before swallowing him down her throat. _As good as any whore._ The thought drew a smile on his lips. Cersei’s eyes alternated between closed and staring up at his own. The feel of her tongue, her hot wet mouth, the way she all but worshipped him. It was all too much from him to last but instead of finishing down her throat, Jaime pulled his hips back to paint his sister’s beautiful face.

A cry of surprise and outrage slipped past her lips, but her hair wrapped his fist prevented her from pulling away. He swiped his cockhead across her nose leaving a stream of seed in its wake. Jaime stared down at his soiled sister with his best imitation of his father’s stern glare. “When Joff comes of age you can send him to me to squire. I’ll make the boy into a warrior.” He leaned down to Cersei’s eye level. Rage stirred in her green orbs. “I was happy to dedicate my life to you Cersei. All you had to do was keep your legs closed. It seems that was too much to expect from you. You brought this on yourself.”

*

Inside the dome of the Great Sept of Baelor, it was blindingly bright. Sunlight filtered into the structure through its glass, gold, and crystal roof. The materials warped the light into a rainbow of colors that made the scene almost otherworldly. To Jaime’s right stood Tyrion, closer to him than even his father. Today his father was so pleased that he did not protest Tyrion’s presence. Fortunately, his little brother had sobered since their early morning conversation with the king and stood bright-eyed and alert. The expression on their father’s face could almost be mistaken for a smile. For some odd reason, Jaime found the sight mildly terrifying.

The gilded oaken benches of the sept were filled completely. Jaime recognized every Lannister of importance, young and old, in attendance. None would miss the opportunity to curry favor with Tywin Lannister, the Lion of the Rock. _Or me I suppose._ He had long grown used to the admirable looks of younger cousins who were too young to understand what the moniker of Kingslayer meant but now Jaime weathered the thinly veiled ambition of their parents. Every single one of them wanted to endear themselves to the newly made heir of the Rock.

The Lannisters were not the only family present. The Hightowers had married into some of the most powerful families of the Reach and as such the region was well represented. Alerie Hightower, wife to Mace Tyrell, sat with her good-sister, Rhonda Rowan, and several of her blood-sisters along with their families. Jaime’s soon to be bride was the youngest daughter of her father but by far the most beautiful of her sisters from what Jaime could see.

Robert and the rest of the royal family sat nearest to the dais. Thankfully the king was tactful enough to leave his pregnant mistress and their lovechild back at the Red Keep or there might have been an incident. Cersei sat beside the king with a clean face. Jaime did not fail to notice her hand resting on Robert’s thigh nor did he miss the vehemence in her eyes. _Do you hope to make me jealous, sweet sister? It is too late for that._ His eyes flickered over her children. Joffrey and Myrcella were twins like Cersei and himself though they bore more distinguishing features than he and Cersei had at their age. Joffrey fidgeted in his seat while little Myrcella sat with a grace that belied her age. She held hands with Jon Arryn’s young daughter, Alayne. Both raised at court, they had become the fastest of friends. The same could not be said of their mothers.

His attention was drawn to the archway of the dome. All rose to their feet as Lynesse entered, escorted by her eldest sibling, Baelor Hightower who acted as the head of their house with the absence of their father, Lord Leyton, who remained at Old Town. Lynesse was a vision in a dress of ivory-samite. A silver hair nest crested with dark blue gemstones lay on top of her blonde locks. A long silver train trailed behind her as she walked arm-in-arm with her brother down the aisle. Clasped to her shoulders by brooches shaped into towers was her maiden cloak. The sigil of House Hightower, a white tower crowned by flames was framed by grey across the silk.

Jaime stared openly at his bride. Her skin was the color of cream, smooth and unblemished. She had wide blue eyes, so dark they were almost purple with a delicate nose above full pink lips. The shy smile she bore reminded him of the late Queen Rhaella. A woman who was too pure for this world.

He found himself eager to see the ceremony finished. However, there was no rushing the High Septon who stood a step higher with a tall seven-sided crown made of crystal and gold. The man’s voluminous robes did little to hide his bulk and he paused several times through the sermon to take a breath.  Finally, after near an hour, it came time to switch the cloaks. Tyrion passed Jaime a neatly folded crimson and gold cloak while Baelor removed the maiden cloak from his sister’s shoulders.

The Lannister cloak was clasped to Lynesse’s dress by golden brooches shaped into roaring lions. Lynesse shivered as his finger’s brushed the back of her neck. They faced each other once again.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” they said as one.

“...and take you for my lord and husband,” Lynesse spoke.

“...and take you for my lady and wife,” Jaime finished. The kiss he initiated was far from chaste. He knew Cersei was watching and meant to give her a show. Lynesse’s lips parted for his tongue and her body molded against his. By the time they parted the room was filled with raucous applause and rowdy laughter. His wife’s face was red from embarrassment but she looked eager for more.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!” Came the commandment of the High Septon.

**The Lord Commander**

**292AC Braavos**

As Aemon grew older there were oft times Arthur wondered if Rhaegar had fallen at the Trident only for his spirit to be reincarnated into his son. Today was one such day. Pleasant music filled the halls of the manse. The song was a simple one, only three notes and far from masterfully played but the performance was a showcase of the remarkable improvement of young Aemon’s skill. He sat under the watchful eye of his instructor; a thin man named Othello who had Summer Islander ancestry and a shrewd face.

Before Aemon was a three-legged music stand. He sat on a stool, his silver-gold hair braided and his eyes focused on the notes before him. Tucked against his chest was an instrument the Braavosi called a violin though Arthur recognized it as a fiddle. For a time, Aemon played without mistakes until he faltered during a note.

“Wrong!” Rickard shouted good-naturedly. Aemon made a rude gesture in response. The boys were quelled by Ashara’s stern face and then Aemon listened intently to his instructor as the man listed his corrections. While Rickard showed little interest in learning an instrument himself, he did enjoy teasing his cousin when given the chance. However, Ashara shooed him away.

“Go stop distracting Aemon!” She ordered. Rickard kissed his mother’s cheek and greeted Arthur on his exit from the room. Arthur strolled over to stand beside his sister who sat on a cushioned chair tucked near the corner of the room, “He’s getting better is he not?” Ashara asked him, pride present in her voice.

Arthur agreed begrudgingly. The music lessons were entirely Ashara’s idea and Arthur had been initially reluctant to agree. Their boys lived regimented lives. In the mornings they woke for their martial training under either his instruction or the twins. By their midday fast they sat in lesson with either Ashara or the private tutor that came to their home twice a week. Ashara had wits enough to join the Citadel had she been born male but even she had shortcomings and saw fit to supplement the boy’s education with tutors more knowledgeable. There was an abundance of learned men in this city, the sizable merchant class even pooled their wealth to form schools to send their children. They had spent a premium on one the best private tutors coin could buy. Arthur had not wanted to impede Aemon’s training nor his studies with something so frivolous as music lessons. His sister’s persistence overcame his reservations though and Aemon had taken quickly to the hobby.

Despite sharing the same interest as his late father (as well as many similar personality quirks, including the brooding silences), Aemon was also fiercely endeared to swordplay. An activity Rhaegar always saw as only an expectation that had to be filled with his status as a prince rather than a true interest despite his talent. Arthur was sure Aemon’s interest was in no small part due to his intense rivalry with Rickard. There were as fierce competitors as they were close friends.

His sister grabbed his hand. Her violet eyes stared up at him. “Something is on your mind?”

Arthur let the bound letter slip down his sleeve. He rotated the letter so she could gaze upon the unbroken seal. Without the use of maesters and their ravens, mail between they and Starfall was difficult to exchange. Courier companies thrived in Essos but there were few who delivered messages to and fro  Westeros and fewer with a level of security necessary to carry the information their letters possessed. A significant premium was charged with every letter and as such, their exchanges were few and far in between.

He made a motion with his head and he and Ashara left the room. They waited until they reached the solar before opening the letter. Elladan’s flowing script greeted their eyes.

_Dear Arthur and Ashara,_

_I regret that you could not hear the news sooner. Father is dead. He passed in his sleep. A week before his passing he had a conversation with Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn in Sunspear. As you know, Oberyn returned from Essos without an army and with a son he fathered on a Lysene noblewoman. On the surface, it seems the princes are committed to peace but every man in Dorne waits for the call of war. There are still cries of ‘Justice for Elia’ outside the walls of Sunspear even six years after Jon Arryn came to Dorne._

_Father met with the princes on the pretext of fostering Allyria with Arianne and perhaps securing a betrothal between our little sister and Oberyn’s son. The former proposal was accepted. By the time you read this, Allyria is of like to be by the princess's side along with Oberyn’s daughters. The latter was refused, Oberyn’s son is set to wed Arianne when he comes of age._

_Our father made inquiries into the plans of the princes initially to no avail. Even when he directly mentioned Prince Viserys’ name the princes remained stone-faced and evasive. I fear Oberyn’s sharp tongue got the best of our father and he revealed that your burgeoning army is not for Viserys. Whether Doran and Oberyn can discern the full extent of the truth is unknown. Father was nearly delirious by his flu on his return to Starfall._

_I will speak to Doran when I deliver Allyria but your secret might be compromised._

Arthur swallowed heavily. A confusing mix of emotions flowed through him. He knew not whether to mourn his father or curse him. “I don’t know what to think,” he told his sister.

Tears pooled in Ashara’s eyes. “Eventually our secret would have needed to be shared if we are to ever make allies in Westeros. Father took a gamble, certainly, but Prince Doran and Oberyn hate Robert and the Lannisters enough that I doubt they would reveal even a suspicion of Aemon’s existence. We are as safe we can be Arthur.”

He pulled his sister into his chest and let her tears soak his shirt. Ashara had always been closest to their father and the pain of being absent from his final moments struck her with the force of a warhammer. While he mourned his father, all his mind could think of was how many wildcards there now were present in the quest for Aemon’s throne. Arthur knew Oberyn was not the kind of man to sit idle and the princes’ anger could only be quelled if his elder brother promised they would act on that anger from a position of strength. Dorne lacked the strength to fit the Targaryens alone so it puzzled him that they would marry Arianne to Oberyn’s son. Perhaps Doran meant to wed off his two sons for alliances? The action made little sense. Outside of Dorne, daughters were usually more valuable for alliances sealed by marriage.

Aemon and Rickard immediately noticed Ashara’s sadness when they emerged from the solar and the boys did their best to comfort her. His sister was the foundation that their family was built on and without her help, Arthur knew he would have been lost. “Let’s spend the day outside. It’s a rare clear day, best not waste it.”

Artan and Ulrick joined them. After their fight with the Bravos, Arthur had decided it unwise to travel without the other Kingsguard unless absolutely necessary. As such, there was a need to hire additional guards so the three of them could adequately rest. Malero and Maerros were left behind to guard the manse. They were both fine fighters and even better guardsmen. With so many wealthy merchants present in this city, a security industry had formed to provide reputable guards for the merchants and their families. Both men were experienced and came with stellar reputations.

Their day was spent traversing the canals and exploring the many market places and temples. Braavos was the youngest of the free cities but had a history rich enough to match any other city on the continent. The boys appreciated the hands-on history lesson and their excursion took the near entirety of the day. They returned to their manse before the sun had set, exhausted but with renewed spirit.

Arthur did a final inspection of the manse’s grounds before retiring to his bed. It was still black as pitch when he woke.  Trepidation rising in his chest prevented him from returning to sleep. _It must be between the hour of the wolf and bat._ Moving by memory, Arthur rose from bed and grabbed Dawn from its stand above his headboard along with his dagger that lay under his pillow. He crept along the floor, his bare feet against the polished stone made little sound. Easing open the door, he slid into the hallway. Stilling himself for a moment, Arthur opened his ears to listen. The scuffle of multiple boots filled his heart with dread.

He moved with haste and entered Aemon’s room that was just across the hall from his. Rhaegon released an agitated yowl before recognizing Arthur’s scent. The lemur’s eyes glowed in the blackness. A small high window above Aemon’s head allowed light from the moon to spill into his room. To Arthur’s surprise, his son was already awake and alert. “Who is here, father?” Aemon questioned. He spoke at a normal volume but it may as well have been a shout at this late hour.

Arthur shushed his son into silence. He grabbed Aemon’s arm and pulled him from the bed. Pushing his son into the closet, Arthur whispered, “I need you to hide here with Rhaegon. Stay quiet and do not come out until I give you the signal.” There was a small crawlspace built into the back wall of the closet that Arthur forced Aemon and Rhaegon into. He passed Aemon his dagger. “Remember your training. If anyone finds you that is not me or your aunt then I want you to fight the best you can and then run.  Do you understand?”

“But Rickard,” Aemon protested.

“I’ll find your cousin. Stay here,” Arthur ordered once again.

He left Dawn’s sheath behind and slipped back into the hallway. The scuffle of boots grew louder and then he heard Ashara’s startled cry. Rage filled Arthur’s heart and he rushed to the sound of his sister’s voice. The walls pressed in too close for Arthur adequately swing his sword. However, the length of his greatsword made it an adequate makeshift spear.  He rounded the corner to Ashara’s and Rickard’s rooms. Immediately two sword-wielding shadows moved to engage him. Arthur kept them at a distance, parrying to the best of his ability and then stabbing at the shifting shadows.

Outnumbered he was forced further and further away from his sister who cried out for Rickard.

“Mother!” Rickard cried. A shadow forced his nephew roughly against the wall.

Enraged, Arthur lunged forward.

“Oh,” one shadow muttered with Dawn in his belly. Before Arthur could pull his greatsword back, a hot pain erupted across his shoulder. He staggered backward and tripped over a chair. Rolling, Arthur narrowly avoided the low stab of his attackers. Sparks erupted as steel collided with stone. He kicked the chair at his attacker and found his feet.

Dawn caught the cutlass on its edge. His attacker parried and slashed at Arthur’s thigh. Arthur avoided the blow and exploited his opponent’s opening. The crossguard of Dawn collided with the man’s temple, staggering him. Arthur did not give him a chance to recover. With a savage cry, he spun Dawn and took off half the man’s jaw with a single swing. Blood splattered against the stone, accompanied by the gurgles of a dying man.

A shadow slammed into Arthur with the force of an enraged ox. Dawn slipped from his grip and clanged to the floor. Arthur was forced against the wall. Powerful hands wrapped around his neck. Arthur struck the man with his fist. It was like striking an anvil. His attacker answered with a punch to Arthur’s belly that doubled him over.

Arthur rolled with the knee to his belly and created enough distance for him to stand. His attacker pressed forward with a series of dizzying blows. Any defense Arthur could muster paled in comparison to the man’s incredible strength. It was like fighting a bear barehanded. He staggered once again when a fist found his ribs. His arms dropped to protect from a follow-up blow. A devastating fist hammered against the side of Arthur’s face. The floor greeted him a moment later.

It was a struggle to breathe through the pain, let alone find the strength to reach his feet again. He heard the scrape of steel against stone. Dawn’s glint greeted his eye. If he had the strength, he would have laughed at the irony. _The first Sword of the Morning to be killed by his own sword._ Moonlight was reflected from Dawn’s pale surface. His attacker's face was revealed. It was the face of a monster: a sloped brow, thick jaw, and dark beady eyes that stared down at Arthur with hate. Its skin was a patterned white and brown. _Aemon can never be found by this one._ Arthur prayed. 

The savage lifted Dawn above his head. Arthur refused to close his eyes. He would stare in the face of death.

“Enough Hargon,” came a stern and commanding voice in accented Braavosi. The savage... Hargon lowered Dawn with a grumble. “Bring him to the others.”

Arthur recognized the accent. _A Northman._ Hargon grabbed Arthur by the collar of his sleeping shirt and half dragged him to the front of the manse. To Arthur’s relief, Ashara and Rickard were there. By the light of the torches, the attackers held Arthur could see a dark bruise growing on his sister’s cheek and a shallow cut across Rickard’s brow. They were held apart from one another. Rickard was held by some bearded Northman while Ashara was in the arms of some brightly colored Tyroshi sellsword. He held a dagger to Ashara’s throat.

Artan and Ulrick were there. The twins had taken beatings as severe as Arthur’s. Ulrick’s right eye was swollen shut while his brother bled from a head wound. Their wrists were bound tightly. Malero and Maerros were not so fortunate. The former lay still with an arrow embedded in his throat while the latter tried in vain to stifle the flow of blood from a wound on his side. _He’ll be dead in an hour._ Arthur thought with a grimace.

The brindled men shoved Arthur to his knees beside Ulrick and Artan. The rock garden bit at his knees. Ashara and Rickard were held atop the stone staircase that led to the front doorway of their manse. Artan flashed Arthur a bitter smile while Ulrick watched their attackers with a sullen face. A blood crescent moon hung above their heads.

There were ten attackers in total. Four of them were Northmen, they wore padded gambesons and were armed with longswords or axes while the rest were Essos born. Arthur and the brothers had ended the lives of three of them and the fourth who had taken Dawn to the belly did not look long for this world.

“You are a difficult man to find, Ser Arthur.” One of the Northmen crouched before him. He was stout with large whiskers turning white. Rather than gloat at his victory the Northman’s eyes were filled with grudging respect. “Lord Stark tasked seven of us from Winterfell to find you. It took us years and now we are fewer. Your reputation truly precedes you.”

Arthur merely glared. “Tell Stark I should have killed him when I had the chance. Next time there will be no mercy.”

The man’s face was grim. “There will be no next time, Ser. Even alone you are too dangerous. I swear on my honor as knight your execution will be quick and your sister will be safely returned to Dorne along with your sword.”

Ulrick spat on the ground before him. “Fuck your honor. You come to our house and ambush in us in the night? You kill our men by surprise and lay hands on our lady and yet you consider yourself honorable? Fuck you and fuck Ned Stark.” The man’s eyes hardened.

Artan grinned sardonically. “My brother speaks truly. At least give us the honor of knowing the names of our executioners.”

“I am Ser Rodrick Cassel of Winterfell,” the man answered. He pointed to the man who held Rickard. “That is Ser Wendel Manderly of White Harbor.” The other knight was round and massive, even more so with his gambeson. Like his companions, he wore muted colors with a plain grey cloak. He had a large beard forked into three prongs. His sword was sheathed at his waist along with a dagger. Ser Rodrick gave the names of each of the Northmen. The three others stood silent. _They are here for coin and coin alone._

Arthur affixed a glare on Ser Rodrick. “I have your word that my sister and the child will not be harmed?”

Ser Rodrick nodded. “Lord Stark specifically ordered for your sister and his nephew to be treated with the utmost care and respect. He bears them no ill will. Nor even you, I suspect. This is war, Ser, but we are not savages.”

Arthur bowed his head. He had vowed to return Aemon to his birthright but it seemed Jon would do so alone. _Aemon is a smart child, once he sees our bodies he will know not to linger. Let the sight of us not trouble him too much. Let Jon find him quickly._ When he looked to his sister, he knew she was aware of his mindset. A subtle nod noticed by only them put her in agreement. _Ned Stark cannot harm Rickard nor Ashara without being cursed as a Kinslayer. Even when he learns he possesses the wrong nephew._ It was a gamble for sure but the only option left.

“We won’t let the boy see,” Rodrick offered in assurance. He gave the order and Ser Wendel lifted Rickard over his shoulder. Rickard kicked and screamed when the Sellsword who held Ashara shoved her forward.

“Leave my mother be!” Rickard yelled.

“Quiet him before we draw the city watch here,” One of the Sellswords hissed. Ser Wendel clamped a hand over Rickard’s mouth only to draw it back in pain a moment later. He cuffed Rickard on the back of his head, drawing a protest from Ashara.

“Enough boy! We are taking you back to your real mother. The one Ser Arthur abandoned to die in the dirt,” Ser Wendel growled. When Rickard did not quiet, he grabbed a short length of rope from his belt and moved to gag Rickard. The boy struggled until Ser Wendel threatened, “We kill Ser Arthur and his friends if you do not quiet at once.” His threat stilled Rickard’s tongue and drew bitter tears from his eyes. Ser Wendel gagged the boy for good measure.

A flash of silver drew Arthur’s eye. Rhaegon sat on top of their manse’s high wall. His purple eyes peered down at them, assessing the situation. _Stay hidden Aemon._ Arthur prayed. The lemur did not linger for long. Instead, it bounded over the wall off into the city.

“Take them to the boat. I mean to sail from this city by sunrise,” Ser Rodrick ordered. By the time Ashara and Rickard were shuffled out the front gate, Maerros and the man Arthur stabbed had expired in pools of their own blood. The Northman who committed to treating the latter wiped his bloodied hands on his pants and stood. Two of the four Northmen left with Arthur’s sister and nephew, along with the Tyroshi sellsword. Ser Rodrick, Ser Wendel, two Northmen, a sellsword with a thick Myrish accent and dark skin and the massive brindled man, Hargon, lingered. The savage still wielded Dawn. _Perhaps he means to keep it._

“How did you find us?” Artan asked their captors.

“Wherever your sellsword company wandered let us guess which city you resided in. They are on a campaign near Andalos so only this city or Norvos made any sense. Lorath is too poor and isolated to be worth your while. Then we heard of some Bravo who boasted he had crossed swords with the Sword of the Morning. If you killed that man, Ser Arthur, we might have never found you,” Ser Wendel shared. He drew his sword.

“Do any of you wish for a prayer?” Ser Wendel asked.

“Go ahead,” Ulrick muttered. Both of the brothers hung their heads in defeat.

_We fought and we lost. Now we rest._

Ser Wendel’s sermon ended with him beseeching the warrior to allow them into his hall. There was no block so the men improvised with a stool. Artan was forced over it first. “I’ll see you both on the other side,” he said. His voice lacked his customary humor.  

“Let them go!”

Dread filled Arthur’s heart. _No, I told you to stay hidden._ All eyes turned to Aemon. He stood at the top of the steps, just beyond the doorway. The boy had dressed himself in his training armor and the dagger Arthur had gave him was belted at his waist. A blunted training blade was in his hand. His silver-gold hair was bound back in a loose tail.

The Northmen gaped at Aemon. Aemon’s dark eyes were hard and full of hate. He stood without fear and pointed his sword at the men and yelled at them, “You heard what I said. We have guards on the way and if you don’t want them to kill you then I suggest you hand my father his sword and go back from where you came.”

Ser Rodrick turned to Arthur. “What sort of trick is this? Who was that other boy?”

Arthur thought quickly. _I need to be clever._ "This is no trick, Ser. Or at least not one of my own. You said Ned Stark tasked you with bringing back his nephew but he failed to tell you that there was two of them.”

Ser Wendel’s face grew red with anger as if he were a haughty walrus. “I do not like what you are implying, Ser.”

“Speak plainly,” Ser Rodrick ordered.

“You just kidnapped the rightful Lord of Winterfell and his mother. My nephew. Brandon Stark’s son and the true heir to the North. Rickard Stark. Or did your Lord fail to tell you that his claim to Winterfell is made invalid by his nephew’s existence?” Arthur questioned sharply.

The Northmen shared a look. Ser Rodrick was quick to come to his lord’s defense. “He was not aware of Rickard’s existence. Even if he was, how are we to know that the boy’s parentage is not just a desperate lie of yours?”

Arthur pressed. “You saw the child; he has the Stark look. That is undeniable. Can any of Ned Stark’s children say the same?”

“Then he is a bastard,” Ser Rodrick denied. “Brandon Stark charmed your sister just as he did several other beautiful women. Such was his nature. The boy likely has a few half-siblings running around the Riverlands that none of us know about. He is a Snow or a Sand, not a Stark.”

“My sister is not some simple serving girl. She is a daughter of House Dayne. We trace our history back to the dawn of days. Brandon courted her in defiance of his father’s plans and married her before he met his death.” Airing such truths made his lie come much easier. “Ned Stark knew of this. Hence why he needed to act in secret against us. You know his brother was well loved in the North; the Wild Wolf culled before his time. How many lords would be enraged knowing their honorable lord was, in fact, a usurping uncle?”

“Enough!” Rodrick shouted. His resolve was unshaken but Arthur thought he saw the seed of doubt in Ser Wendel. “That one is Lyanna’s son, a Targaryen he is, there is no doubt. The rest you speak of is folly. We will not fall for your poor attempts at deception Ser Arthur.”

Aemon released a war cry and rushed the knights. He jumped from the top of the steps and landed nimbly. Aemon drove the tip of his blunted sword into one of the Northmen’s groin, collapsing the man. His sword was wrenched out of his hand before he could do further damage. Arthur tried to rise when Aemon was kicked to the dirt but Hargon was quick to end his struggle with a boot to the back. Bound by the wrists and ankles, Arthur could do little but squirm in the dirt.

His son fought hard but to no avail. The Northmen dug his knee into Aemon’s back and then wrenched his arms behind him to tie his wrist. No matter how much Aemon kicked and screamed, he could not escape.

“Leave me alone!” Aemon cried.

“Don’t you dare hurt him!” Arthur yelled. Aemon chewed on the finger of the wounded Northman who tried to gag him. The Northman slapped him roughly to free his fingers. Aemon’s neck snapped to the side from the force of the blow.

It was not the voice of an eight-year-old that greeted their ears. The voice was deep and savage and ancient as if some dark god had possessed the child’s body. “I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!”

The Northman gave a shudder and then his body twitched. A scream escaped his lips. “No. No. Stop it!” He cried and then his words were reduced to gurgles. He dropped to the ground in convulsions. Arthur watched horrified as the man clawed at his own face as if he was trying to tear something out from within. His jaw clamped shut and then there was a gush of blood that pooled from behind his teeth and down his lips to stain his beard.

_He bit out his own tongue._ Arthur realized. More concerning was how still Aemon was. He was face down on the ground.

Ulrick reacted. “Hargon!” He called to the savage. “That boy is blessed by the gods. The High Priestess of R’hllor brought him back to life. His father was a prince who wore rubies in his armor. His grandfather a-” His words were cut off by Ser Rodrick’s boot robbing him of breath.

Artan picked up where his brother left off without pause. “His father left a fortune in the Iron Bank. It is yours if you help us. These Northmen cannot match our gift.”

Hargon’s teeth shifted in consideration. Their remaining captors shifted nervously and all hands fell to their swords. For good reason. The brindled men of Sothoryos were almost mythical in Westeros and Arthur had only seen a few in his time in Essos, all were either bodyguards or pit fighters. Even the women of their kind were said to be stronger than normal men. This savage was a massive specimen. Six feet tall but with unnaturally long arms that were as thick as Ashara’s thighs. His neck and shoulders were one solid mass of a muscle. Clad in simple grey tunic and breeches that ended at his knees, Hargon lacked the armor of his comrades but his skin was as thick as horseflesh. Last but not least, the savage still held Dawn.

“Sword too,” came Hargon’s reply.

“Sword too,” Arthur agreed. All hell broke loose.

Hargon was no swordsman. He swung Dawn as if it were a simple club. Yet Dawn made for a long and dangerously sharp club paired with his prodigious strength. Ser Rodrick was the first to fall to Dawn’s bite. The older man’s sword was knocked loose from his grip before Hargon brought Dawn down on his collar with a two-handed blow. Meteorite forged steel bite through Ser Rodrick’s gambeson to taste the flesh beneath. Ser Wendel was quick to engage Hargon as Ser Rodrick staggered in the dirt. His fellow Northman followed.

Arthur was the first to his feet and he slammed his shoulder into the Myrish sellsword who lingered on the sidelines. They fell together in a heap. Artan leapt to Arthur’s defense, kicking the sellsword in the face before he could take hold of his sword. Arthur wrestled the dagger from the sellsword’s belt and stabbed him thrice in the belly till he grew still.

Sword in hand, Artan stumbled against the strength of the ax-wielding Northman. Ulrick grabbed the spear near Malero’s corpse and rushed to his brother’s aide. Two against one the Northman fought well until Ulrick’s spear entered the back of his knee. Artan buried his blade in the Northman’s skull. _That’s why you wear a helmet._ Arthur could not help but think of his Ser’s first lesson.

HIs bonds freed, Arthur watched the duel between Hargon and Ser Wendel. The fat knight fought well and punished the savage for his average swordplay with enough cuts and stabs that staggered the Brindled Man. Seeing an opening, Arthur lunged with his dagger. Hargon emitted a sound of shock as the blade severed his spine. Arthur caught Dawn before the Brindled Man collapsed. 

Ser Wendel was quick to realize he was surrounded. 

“Do you wish for a prayer, Ser?” Arthur questioned.

To his credit. Wendel did not beg. “I don’t mean to make it easy for you.” He held his blade at ready. Artan and Ulrick circled the knight. They were wolves surrounding fat bloodied prey.

Arthur shook his head at the brothers. _This one is mine._ "It will be.” He lunged forward with Dawn. The blade sang through the air colliding with castle-forged steel. Wendel grunted as Arthur followed with a slash at his hip. He caught the blow on the edge of his blade and responded with an aggressive riposte.

Dawn was too long and Arthur too skilled for such a move to make contact. They parted for a moment. Arthur held the hilt of Dawn above his head while the blade of the greatsword guarded his body. Wendel lunged once again and then they were dancing.

The anger coursing through Arthur’s veins was nearly overwhelming. He forced the fat man backward with a series of blinding cuts and slashes. Arthur was now dancing and Wendel was merely struggling to keep pace.

“Relax Ser Wendel, I will not kill you yet,” Arthur taunted. Wendel grit his and slashed at Arthur’s face. Arthur turned the blade away with ease. “You will return to the North and deliver a message.”

Arthur allowed Wendel to put him on the defensive. He gave a step and then another. Hope bloomed in Ser Wendel’s eyes.

“I’ll die today Ser, but I am taking you with me.” Ser Wendel stabbed forward at Arthur’s belly, falling for his feint.

Arthur had practiced the move a hundred times. He stepped out of line of Ser Wendel’s blade, allowing it to pass inches away from his abdomen. At the same time, he flicked Dawn in a onehanded slice. Less than a second later, Wendel’s sword dropped to the dirt. Along with his right hand, severed at the wrist. The knight stared in shock at his newly made stump. Wendel dropped to his knees.

“Kill me,” Ser Wendel said.

Arthur turned to his subordinates instead. “Secure him. He does not yet have my permission to die.” He made his way to Aemon. Blood seeped from his son’s nose, covering his mouth with a mix of dirt. If it were not for the movement of Aemon’s chest, Arthur would have thought his son dead. He cradled the boy in his arms. “Aemon.”

To his surprise and horror, Aemon stirred. The blood vessels in Aemon’s eyes had busted, staining the whites entirely red. His pupils were dilated and unseeing. _He’s blind._ The realization stilled Arthur’s heart. _Please let this not be permanent._

_“_ Father?” Aemon questioned.

Arthur nodded before remembering that his son could not see him. “Yes, Aemon it is me.” He squeezed Aemon’s hand in reassurance.

Aemon smiled. “Are Ulrick and Artan alive as well?”

“They are. Thanks to you I think.” Half a hundred questions invaded Arthur’s mind but he did not think Aemon well enough to answer them just yet.

“Be ruthless,” Aemon muttered. He sounded so tired. “Aunt Ashara and Rickard need your help. They haven’t gone very far.” To Arthur’s surprise, Aemon told him their location. “Hurry father.” He slipped back into unconsciousness.

Arthur carried Aemon back to his bed. He took the tip to pull on his boots.

“I’m going with you,” Artan said.

Arthur shook his head. “You and your brother need to hold Ser Wendel and protect the king. One of you will remain at Aemon’s side until I return.”

Artan grimaced but did not argue.

Following Aemon’s instructions, Arthur raced across the streets. A large canal bisected their neighborhood and it was logical that the Northmen would have traveled by way of a boat for quick access to one of the larger canals that formed the main arteries of the city. By now, the Shivers had run its course and the streets teemed with nightlife. With his greatsword in hand, anyone in his path was quick to move. He bounded across bridges, down alleyways, leapt entire staircases and crossed half a dozen islands before he heard Rhaegon’s distinctive yowl.

Blood coursed through Arthur’s ears, deafening him to the excited voices of the gathered crowd. His journey had taken him close to Ragman’s Harbor. The streets were lined with filth. Homes leaned against one another more so than anywhere else in the city.

Dread made each step he took a labor. His eyes took in the scene. A ship had been run ashore. Beside it was two purple hulled boats of the city’s guard. A dozen yards from shore stood five guards held at bay the residents curious enough to brave the streets at this late hour. The men stirred at Arthur’s approach, staring nervously at the steel he bared. Beyond their protective ring, Arthur could see the two Northmen bound and kneeling at swordpoint.

The guards tried to intercept him. When they moved, Rickard was revealed along with Ashara who lay still. His nephew was kneeling over his mother’s body, sobs racked his own. A few words muttered by Arthur and the guards let him pass.

Rickard lifted his head when Arthur knelt on the other side of Ashara. His fist clenched when he took in sight of his nephew’s face. A deep cut to the left side of his face made a ruin of his left eye. Tears leaked from his right. He pulled Ashara’s head into his lap and closed her now listless eyes. The odd angle of her neck told him all he needed to know.

“I tried to fight and he killed her.” Rickard made a motion with his head in the direction of the Tyroshi who lay face down in a pool of fresh blood.

A weight settled on Arthur’s shoulder and he felt the familiar sensation of Rhaegon’s tail brushing against his neck. The lemur was quick to leap to Rickard and try to comfort him. To no avail.

In the late morning, they watched the Northmen hang. Kidnappings were a capital offense in Braavos. Wealthy merchants and their families were oft targets and the Justiciars of Braavos were quick to dispense their justice. He and Rickard had been questioned, and the city watch had been sent to their manse to collect the bodies of the dead but to those outside of their family they were the unfortunate targets of a coordinated kidnapping prompted by their wealth.

Arthur wrapped his arms around his nephew’s shoulders. His face had been cleaned and the damage done to his eye was made clear in the light. Rickard’s left eyeball was still there but he would never see out of the eye again. It was covered by thick gauze now, likely to be replaced by an eyepatch when the wound scarred over.

Hours later they pulled Ser Wendel from his supply closet. The bandages around his stump were dark with blood. His skin was pale and sweat-stained his tunic. Artan and Ulrick hauled him by his shoulders into a chair. Tight ropes bound his ankles and arms.

Arthur pulled the gag from the knight’s mouth. When Ser Wendel did not stir quick enough, they dumped a bucket of water pulled from the canal on his head. He gasped in shock. Arthur gripped Ser Wendel’s face. “Look at me!”

The knight’s eyes were wide with fright. Arthur squeezed his jaw until the man complied. “The men you sent killed my sister.” He turned the man’s eyes to Rickard. Despair had given away to rage and Rickard’s grey eye was filled with cold rage. “You killed the mother of the future Lord of Winterfell.”

Ser Wendel’s eyes widened with disbelief. “T-that wasn’t our intention,” he stammered. “No one was supposed to get hurt. No one. Believe me.”

“Enough of your lies, Ser Wendel. You led those men here as their commander any action they took is your responsibility. As is it was Ned Stark’s. As far as I am concerned, you and Ned Stark killed my sister.” Arthur let the implication of his words hang in the air.

Ser Wendel took a breath. “You haven’t killed me yet. Why?”

Arthur stood over him. “I want you to deliver a message. My sister thought there could be peace between us but Ned Stark chose the Usurper over his own family. Tell him Brandon Stark’s son lives, tell him that he holds his uncle responsible for his mother’s death. I want Stark to know that he killed his brother’s wife, maimed his brother’s son. Tell your lord there will be no peace between us. Not now, not ever. We will burn Winterfell to the ground and rebuild it on his ashes.”

They cut Ser Wendel’s binds and forced him to the front gate.

“What are House Stark’s words?” Artan asked the knight.

“Winter is Coming,” Ser Wendel answered.

Ulrick nodded. “Yes, this time it comes with Fire and Blood.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are surely appreciated.


	9. A War of the Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but I wanted to post something before the shitshow that will be the finale. Once again fuck D&D

**Eddard Stark**

**Late 292AC Winterfell**

The arrival of Lord Manderly and his heir, Ser Wylis, and his second son, Ser Wendel, had been long expected. A raven had from White Harbor announcing Ser Wendel’s return from Essos. The letter mentioned nothing of Ser Rodrick Cassel, nor the rest of the men Ned had sent from Winterfell in pursuit of Ser Arthur and his nephew. Aemon’s existence was far too important to share by letter, but Ned had suspected for weeks they had failed. If not, their letter would have contained an invitation to White Harbor and he and Lyanna would have road down at once.

Instead, he and Lyanna greeted the three men and their small host inside the walls of Winterfell. They had a six man escort whose surcoats and banners were soddened from the wet of the summer snow storm. Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel both rode horses. They were bundled up to their faces, the protective clothing made them appear all the wider. Lord Wyman Manderly was aptly named ‘Lord too-fat-to-sit-a-horse’, a moniker that was certainly well deserved. His covered carriage was nearly too wide to fit through Winterfell’s portcullis.

Ned stood next to his sister as summer snow fell around them. Lyanna’s grey eyes were stern. She stood straight-backed her mouth affixed in a flat line. A sword was at her belt and a cloak bearing House Stark’s sigil was clasped to her shoulders, hood up. Her hair fell in a long braid down her shoulder. The cold drew a flush from her cheeks.

Despite his sister’s stern appearance, Ned could almost see the fear and apprehension that threatened to undue her. Lyanna was a woman of great strength and resolve. She was a Stark of Winterfell, the very embodiment of their late mother’s perseverance. Impatience and heartbreak threatened to put that at an end. _I promised her that her child would be returned to her nearly a decade ago._ Lyanna had never seemed to give up that hope and she had become something of a second mother for his own children. With the hope that perhaps one day her son would find a home with his newly met family.  

There was no child that was carried out of the carriage when Lord Wyman fumbled out of its doorway. His bulk was covered in a thick woolen shirt, dyed the same sea green of his house’s colors and trimmed with fur. An overcoat was thrown over his shoulders; the rich black fur licked at his heels. It was pinned by a golden trident at his shoulders. He waddled over to Ned and Lyanna. The three Manderly men bowed their heads respectively.

They exchanged greetings and Vayon Poole offered the three visitors bread and salt. Once Guest Rights had been properly adhered to Ned invited the men and his sister back to his solar. Lyanna looked ready to interrogate the three right there in the courtyard. Ned gripped his sister’s arm gently and led her in the castle. A glance upwards to his wife’s room revealed his lady wife at the window.

Catelyn did not take too well to Ned holding his secrets. She was too observant to not suspect there was some greater reason to this abrupt meeting between he and his Warden of the White Knife. Ned had invented a story of piracy by the denizens that afflicted the Three Sisters, but he knew his wife was unconvinced. Lyanna’s coldness and increasing distress was telling, not to mention her presence at a meeting she should very well have no part of. Lying to his wife brought him no pleasure but provided the choice between lying to keep her and their children safe or making her privy to treason, Ned would choose the former every single time.

The day was made dim from the summer snowstorm. Lit candles placed around his solar chased the darkest shadows to the corners of the room. It was only in the brighter light that Ned noticed the stump in place of Ser Wendel’s sword hand.

“What happened?” Lyanna questioned. She grabbed his wrist to hold the severed appendage up to her eyes. The stump was wrapped in gauze.

“Ser Arthur,” Ser Wendel said gruffly. He snatched his arm away from Lyanna’s grip. The knight was not as large as his elder brother nor his father. In fact, the man looked as if he had lost at least two or three stone since Ned had sent first sent him on his mission in the east.

Ned swallowed heavily. “The others?” He asked.

Ser Wendel shook his head. “I am the only one left.”

The Lord of Winterfell shared a sigh with his sister. He bid the Manderlys to take their seats. Their conversation paused when Vayon Poole entered the room to serve each of them mulled wine. Ned wet his throat with the drink, Lyanna abstained. Ser Wendel drained his glass entirely. On normal circumstances Ned would have offered the men a meal but the news they held could no longer be delayed.

He nodded at Vayon and bid the man to leave. Only a few seconds after Vayon exited the room Maester Luwin peered in through the doorway. The small grey man was oft at Ned’s side when he held conference with his lords. Ned held Luwin’s council in the same regard as his wife’s or sister’s but now was a time for secrecy. _Or as much of it that can be maintained._ The list of people who knew about Aemon seemed to grow every year. _If Ser Arthur had fallen at the tower, we could have held that secret till the end of our days. Now…_ He clenched his fist.

“My lord?” Maester Luwin questioned. He held up a quill and paper in his wrinkled hands.

Ned shook his head. “That is not necessary Maester Luwin. We require privacy. See to it that no one interrupts us.”

Luwin bowed deeply. He tucked his quill and parchment back into his voluminous grey sleeves. “Yes, my lord.” The door sealed shut behind him.

“Tell us what happened,” Lyanna questioned as soon as the door shut. Her tone was sharp and biting.

Ser Wendel looked to Ned for his permission before speaking. Ned provided him with a nod. The knight cleared his throat. His skin was grey and green and deep dark circles were present under his eyes. He tried to smile at Lyanna, perhaps to placate her but his expression was anything but cheerful. “We found him, my lady. We found your son.”

“And you lost him,” Lyanna accused. Her grey eyes grew fierce.

Ned squeezed his sister’s thigh in an attempt to quell her growing anger. The wolf’s blood was strong in his little sister, but her blame would serve no purpose. Ser Wendel’s guilt was plain.

“Ser Arthur was too formidable?” Ned guessed. Even a decade after their fight, Ned still had a vivid memory of how formidable Ser Arthur had been with that greatsword in hand. The Sword of the Morning was not one for half measures and protecting Lyanna’s son and the boy’s claim to the Iron Throne was his sworn duty.

To their surprise, Ser Wendel shook his head. “We caught Ser Arthur by surprise. By the time he knew we there we had already infiltrated their manse and had his sister in our custody. Our big man subdued Ser Arthur but not before he killed two himself. Ser Arthur had four other men protecting them. Two Dornish men and two bodyguards he must have hired in the city-”

“And my son?” Lyanna questioned.

Ser Wendel swallowed heavily. “We had him,” he said in a voice as quiet as whisper. “Or we thought we had. The boy we found was plainly a Stark. His face, his eyes were grey, and his hair was dark. We thought he was yours, my lady.”

At the Tower of Joy, Ser Arthur had only spared them a single glance at the child. Ned’s eyes had nearly been sealed shut, Howland was close to death and Lyanna was bordering delirium from blood loss and stress. She had seen her child for a few seconds, not even allowed to hold him in her arms. It was forgivable that she could not even reliably name his hair color.

“They had a decoy?” Ned questioned. He should have not been surprised that Ser Arthur would such measures in place. If they weren’t at odds with one another then Ned might have been impressed.

“Not exactly,” Ser Wendel said. He stared directly into Ned’s eyes. Ned found all three Manderly men looking at him intently. “The boy was… is a Stark. His mother is Ashara Dayne and his father-”

“Brandon,” Lyanna interrupted. When Ser Wendel nodded, her eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“You did not tell us that you had a nephew. A trueborn son of Brandon Stark nonetheless.” Ned could hear the accusation in Ser Wylis’ voice.

Ned glared at the man. “You think I knew? My brother marched to King’s Landing and died watching our father burned alive. If I had known he had a son…”

“He has a better claim to Winterfell and the North than you or your children,” Ser Wendel said. The words hung in the air for a moment. “Ser Arthur said he was part of the reason why you sent us. To protect your own claim.”

Ned felt his anger rise but it was Lyanna who spoke for him. The she-wolf’s ire was plain. “Ser Arthur is a man who stole my only son. I never held him in my arms. Never had the chance to because of Ser Arthur. If you believe that man over the lord who has ruled the North fairly for a decade then you are all fools. Ned would never act against Brandon’s son. Never.”

The three Manderlys shifted uncomfortably under Lyanna’s stern gaze. It was Lord Manderly who spoke. “Please forgive us Lady Stark. We had to be sure. But you need to understand, Brandon’s son’s existence changes everything in the North. Ser Arthur will ensure it.”

Ned’s heart hammered in his chest. He felt short of breath and stalled for a moment to take a long draught from his goblet. Lyanna squeezed his leg. When he set his goblet down his resolve was stronger. “Ser Arthur will not need to plot. Winterfell belongs to Brandon’s son.” A bitter chuckle left his throat. “By the Old Gods… I don’t even know his name.” His hand shook. “He can marry Sansa or Arya and we will unite their claims.” How could he explain this to Catelyn or his son? _Robb… Will the boys get on with each other?_ Ned had been born a second son and had known from birth that his place was to support his elder brother… but Robb. _Robb is a firstborn. Even this young and he will know his claim to Winterfell was taken away from him._

A grimace appeared on Ser Wendel’s face. “His name is Rickard, my lord and I wish that were possible.”

Ned hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“We had them. Ser Arthur and his men were subdued. Ser Rodrick ordered Lady Ashara and her son to be taken to our ship and then we would deal with Ser Arthur and his knights.” He looked to Lyanna. “And then your son appeared. A full Targaryen that one. Silver-hair and all.” A look of abject horror came on his face. “I have no idea how, but I watched that child kill a man with his mind. He made him bite out his own tongue. How can you explain that?”

Lyanna shook her head in denial. “You’re making a mistake. That is impossible.”

“I saw it with my own eyes. The boy is a demon,” Ser Wendel said with great conviction. “Whatever he did gave Ser Arthur enough time to turn our man against us. Ser Arthur cut off my hand. He is the finest swordsman I have ever seen, and he is angry. Livid.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We killed his sister, Ned. His nephew lost an eye. Arthur has promised his vengeance and he means to take the North from you.”

Ned could not believe the words. _How did this all go wrong?_ The more Ser Wendel spoke, the greater Ned’s dread became. _My brother’s wife… His son._ “I-” The words stilled in his throat.

Lyanna remained stubborn. “We can fix this, Ned.” She gripped his arm tightly. “Declare the North for Aemon. Marry him to Sansa and Arya to Brandon’s boy.” Her eyes were wet with unshed tears.

Lord Wyman cleared his throat. “Respectfully my lord that would be most unwise.” He was unperturbed by Lyanna’s fierce scowl. “The North fought to overthrow the Targaryens. We fought to liberate Lady Lyanna from Prince Rhaegar. Your Lord father and brother were burned alive by the boy’s grandfather. For your Bannermen to discover that the story they heard… the story that prompted them to go to war for is all a lie… it would be devastating. And then you would ask them to fight for a Targaryen nonetheless…” When he swallowed his jowls jiggled and swayed.

Ser Wylis added onto his father’s commentary. “House Manderly will remain loyal to the Lord of Winterfell to the very end, but my father speaks truly. You know as well as I that men of the North are stubborn. We fought to end the Targaryens and if you were to ask your lords, many who had fond memories of Lord Rickard and your brother Brandon to fight for Rhaegar’s son then it would be tantamount to spitting on the memory of all who sacrificed themselves in the Rebellion.”

“My son is just as much as a Stark as he is a Targaryen,” Lyanna all but growled.

“You may have birthed him my lady, but the boy knows Ser Arthur as his father. The Sword of the Morning is raising him to be a dragon. A dragon who has every reason now to hate the North.” Lord Manderly’s look was full of sympathy. He turned to Ned. “I doubt this needs to be said but you must act from a position of strength. Ser Arthur fully intends to use your nephew’s identity to undermine your rule over the North. It is only a matter of time before word of Brandon’s son’s existence reaches the other lords.” The chair beneath him groaned under his weight as he leaned forward. “Frame the narrative before others can frame their own.”

There was a pause in their conversation as the five of them considered the Lord of White Harbor’s words. “You mean for me to name Rickard a bastard?” Ned questioned.

Wyman nodded carefully. “Did they even have a septon to recite their vows? And I doubt the Mad King allowed your brother to swear himself to Lady Ashara before a heart tree. My son says he looks like a Stark, but we all knew your brother’s nature. He could just as likely be a Sand and this is some ploy concocted by Ser Arthur. Whatever the case, the Lords of the North need to have complete confidence in their Warden. You were born in Winterfell, your sons raised here, and have you ruled us justly since your father was taken before his time. Remind them of that. Even the most contentious will see reason.”

Lyanna shook her head. She remained stubborn as ever. “Ned remember what father would always say, ‘the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.’ They are Starks just like you and I. Your children’s family nonetheless.”

Her words filtered into his ear. _Starks raised by Daynes._ He remembered his first sight of Lady Ashara at Harrenhal. Even to this day he had never met a woman half as lovely as that violet-eyed beauty. Ned had been too shy to approach her, and it fell to his brother to make the introductions. Perhaps part of him should have been angry that Brandon had taken her for himself, but it had been years and his affection had waned with the ebb of time. _May she find peace in death._ “You said Ser Arthur promised vengeance. I imagine that is why he let you live?” He directed to Ser Wendel. The knight nodded. “What were his exact words?”

“He promised to burn Winterfell to the ground and rebuild it on your ashes,” Ser Wendel answered in a solemn voice. His shoulders slumped. “That was no empty boast, my lord. It was a promise of events to come. Of that I am sure.”

Ned nodded woodenly. He turned to Lyanna. “My ashes and that of my sons, my daughters, my wife and perhaps even yours Lyanna. Ser Arthur is not a man that can be reasoned with. Not now. Not ever. And he is the type of man whose threats I do not take lightly. He is determined to be my enemy and use my own blood against me to do so.”

“You made a promise,” Lyanna pleaded.

“I need to protect my family, Lyanna,” Ned explained. It would only be a matter of time until Arthur pressed Aemon’s claim. The North and his family needed to be ready to weather that storm. _Whose fury will be greater, Ser Arthur’s or Robert’s?_ Somehow the former filled him with more dread than the latter. Now not one but two nephews sworn against his family. _A War of the Wolves._

He was not surprised when Lyanna abruptly left the room in a cold fury. Alone with the Manderlys, Ned discussed the North’s future. By tomorrow ravens would fly and bear the news of Brandon’s bastard and the boy’s ambitious uncle. His eyes grew heavy and he called a servant to see the men to their rooms. Rather than retire to his own chambers, Ned found himself outside Cat’s.

His wife answered after the third knock. She wore a simple white sleeping slip and her auburn hair was done up in a bun she only wore when preparing to sleep. Her vivid blue eyes were filled with concern and question. _She is so beautiful._ Even near a decade after their union there were times Ned did not feel worthy of her. _She was intended for Brandon._ There were times Ned looked at his four beautiful children his wife had given him and wondered if his brother’s life was the price for his happiness.

“Ned?” Catelyn questioned. A sudden flood of emotion came over him and Ned pulled his wife into his arms and kissed her fiercely. Cat was shocked at first but returned his kiss after a moment’s hesitation. “What has gotten into you?” She asked with a laugh after they parted.

Ned tried to return her smile but failed. “My lady, there is something I need to tell you.” She was just a stranger to him when they said their vows and when they met in their marriage bed. A stranger when she placed their firstborn child in his arms. A stranger when he brought his sister back to the North. A stranger no longer.

_She needs to know my treason. For it is now her own. May the gods forgive me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next chapters, the format will be a bit different. 
> 
> Chapter 10 will be focused on Lyanna, Ned and the North. This chapter will likely conclude in either 298AC or 300AC.  
> Chapter 11 will be focused on the Targaryen Camps. This includes Aemon, Ser Arthur, Rickard as well as Daenerys, Viserys and Lucerys. Chapter 11 will begin a bit backward in time as compared to Chapter 10 and then conclude in either 298AC or 300AC. 
> 
> These will be the last of the child Targaryen chapters and so the POVs will shift accordingly. This means more Aemon & Daenerys POVs as compared to Ser Arthur. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated.


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